Sook  is  DUE  on 


'  SOUTHERN  BRANCH, 

STY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

LIBRARY, 

ANGELES,  CALIF. 


?  * 


MASTERPIECES  OF  AMERICAN 
LITERATURE 


FRANKLIN:  IRVING:  BRYANT:  WEBSTER:  EVERETT 

LONGFELLOW:  HAWTHORNE:  WHITTIER 

EMERSON  :  HOLMES  :  LOWELL 

THOREAU'  POE:  O'REILLY 


WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 
AND   PORTRAITS 


BOSTON  NEW  YORK  CHICAGO 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
EiDcrfitUe 


57840 


Copyright,  1891, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFOK  A  CO. 

All  rights  reserved- 


-PS 

507 


I  90Z, 


Vn 


c  PREFACE. 

«n  ^ 


f- 


THIS  volume  owes  its  existence  to  the  desire  of  the 

Boston  school  authorities  for  a  collection  of  produc- 

X        tions  from  American  authors  of  distinction,  especially 

v        suitable  for  use  in  the  most  advanced  class  of  the 

'->        grammar   schools.      Its   contents   are    taken  mostly 

from  the  Riverside  Literature  Series. 

At  the  request  of  the  committee  on  text-books,  the 
board  of  supervisors,  after  conferring  with  the  pub- 
*i .  Ushers,  planned  the  book  and  approved  every  selec 
tion.  Their  action  was  reported  to  the  committee 
on  text-books,  and  upon  the  recommendation  of  this 
committee  the  school  board,  by  a  unanimous  vote, 
adopted  the  proposed  book,  Masterpieces  of  Amer 
ican  Literature,  as  a  text -book  for  reading  in  the 
first  class  of  the  grammar  schools. 

The  considerations  that  guided  in  the  make-up  of 
the  book  were  that  the  various  authors  should  be 
represented  by  characteristic  and  noted  productions ; 
that  these  productions,  though  generally  above  the 
present  range  of  the  thought  and  experience  of  the 
students,  should  yet  be  within  their  reach  ;  that  they 
should  be  inspiring  and  uplifting  in  their  influence 
upon  life  and  character,  and  fitted  to  serve  the  great 


IT  PREFACE. 

purpose  of  developing  a  sense  of  what  real  literature 
is,  both  in  form  and  in  spirit. 

While  holding  to  these  considerations,  it  was  also 
kept  in  mind  that  the  book  must  be  a  reading-book, 
in  the  school  sense.  It  is  to  be  used  for  improvement 
in  the  art  of  oral  reading  as  well  as  for  studies  in 
literature.  Therefore,  a  variety  of  styles  in  both 
prose  and  poetry  is  needed.  This  will  explain  why, 
in  some  instances,  a  particular  selection  is  made  from 
an  author  rather  than  some  other  selection.  The 
more  mechanical  part  of  oral  reading  —  the  devel 
opment  and  management  of  the  voice,  the  rendering 
flexible  the  organs  of  speech  and  securing  precision 
in  their  action  —  may  receive  due  attention  without 
much  regard  to  the  meaning  of  the  exercises  used  in 
practice.  But  to  gain  the  ability  to  read  well  orally 
—  to  convey  exact  thought  and  quicken  feeling  by  the 
utterance,  in  appropriate  tones,  of  what  another  has 
written  —  requires  extended  practice  upon  pieces  rich 
in  thought  and  various  in  style  and  sentiment. 

The  brief  biographical  sketches  of  the  thirteen  au 
thors  represented  here,  while  helpful  for  the  infor 
mation  which  they  contain,  will,  it  is  hoped,  inspire 
the  reader  to  a  further  study  of  the  authors  and  their 
works. 

As  this  book  has  been  especially  prepared  for  the 
advanced  class  in  the  grammar  schools  of  Boston  to 
meet  an  acknowledged  want,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  it  will  render  the  same  good  service  in  classes 
of  similar  grade  elsewhere. 


PREFACE.  T 

The  selections  from  the  following  named  authors 
are  used  by  permission  of,  and  by  arrangement  with, 
the  authorized  publishers  of  their  works :  — 

WASHINGTON  IRVING,  .     .  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

W.  C.  BRYANT,   ....  Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 

J.  B.  O'liEiLLY,  ....  The  Cassell  Publishing  Compuj, 
DAHIEL  WEBSTER  and 

EDWARD  EVERETT,  .    .    .  Messrs.  Little,  Brown  &  Co. 
August,  1891. 

NOTB.  —  In  response  to  repeated  requests  the  publishers  have  added 
to  this  book  two  selections  from  the  writings  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  with 
a  biographical  sketch.  The  text  followed  in  the  selections  is  that  of 
the  ten  volume  edition  of  Poe's  complete  Works,  issued  by  Messrs. 
Herbert  S.  Stone  &  C«.,  and  is  used  through  the  courtesy  of  the 
publishers. 

f ,  1902. 


CONTENTS. 


»« 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH      ...•••••! 
*v    Rip  VAN  WINKLE •       •       .         T 

BRYANT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH     .....•••33 

THANATOPBIS ....       37 

To  A  WATERFOWL •••.39 

FRANKLIN. 

-/BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH .       .  41 

POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC       .......  46 

LETTER  TO  SAMUEL  MATHER        .       *       .       .       .       .  60 

LETTER  TO  THE  REV.  DR.  LATHROP,  BOSTON      ...  61 

LETTER  TO  BENJAMIN  WEBB       ......  64 

HOLMES. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH .65 

GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL  BATTLE  .       .       68 
THE  PLOUGHMAN        .........    80 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS  ...••••       82 

THE  IRON  GATE •••83 

HAWTHORNE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  ........       87 

V/THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE          .......    92 

MY  VISIT  TO  NIAGARA  ....••••     117 

WHITTIER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH      .       .       .       ••,*       .       .  127 

SNOW-BOUND 130 

THE  SHIP-BUILDERS          ........  1B6 

THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE    .......     159 

THOREAU. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 161 

WILD  APPLBS  ...»••••••     136 


viii  CONTENTS. 

O'REILLY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH      .       o       ......  199 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  ........      203 

LOWELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH      ........  213 

BOOKS  AND  T.rRHARTKfl    ........       217 

ESSAY  ON  LINCOLN  [WITH  LINCOLN'S  GETTYSBURG  SPEECH]  238 
THE  VISION  OF  SIB  LAUNFAL  .......  270 

EMERSON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  ........     285 

BEHAVIOR 288 

BOSTON  HYMN .309 

WEBSTER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 313 

ADDRESS  DELIVERED  AT  THE  LAYING   OF   THE   CORNER 
STONE  OF  BUNKER  HILT.  MONUMENT,  JUNE   17,  1825     317 

EVERETT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 347 

FROM  "THE  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON"      ...     351 

LONGFELLOW. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH •       .  363 

\J  EVANGBUNK      .........      366 

POE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH        .......   463 

THE  RAVEN .467 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSK  or  USHEB        .       .       .       .476 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

IRVING  may  be  named  as  the  first  author  in  the  United 
States  whose  writings  made  a  place  for  themselves  in  gen 
eral  literature.  Franklin,  indeed,  had  preceded  him  with 
his  autobiography,  but  Franklin  belongs  rather  to  the  colo 
nial  period.  It  was  under  the  influences  of  that  time  that 
his  mind  and  taste  were  formed,  and  there  was  a  marked 
difference  between  the  Boston  and  Philadelphia  of  Frank 
lin's  youth  and  the  New  York  of  Irving's  time.  Politics, 
commerce,  and  the  rise  of  industries  were  rapidly  changing 
social  relations  and  manners,  while  the  country  was  still 
dependent  on  England  for  its  higher  literature.  It  had 
hardly  begun  to  find  materials  for  literature  in  its  own  past 
or  in  its  aspects  of  nature,  yet  there  was  a  very  positive  ele 
ment  in  life  which  resented  foreign  interference.  There 
were  thus  two  currents  crossing  each  other :  the  common  life 
which  was  narrowly  American,  and  the  cultivated  taste 
which  was  English,  or  imitative  of  England.  Irving's  first 
ventures,  in  company  with  his  brothers  and  Paulding,  were 
in  the  attempt  to  represent  New  York  in  literature  upon  the 
model  of  contemporary  or  recent  presentations  of  London 
"  The  town  "  in  the  minds  of  these  young  writers  was  that 
portion  of  New  York  society  which  might  be  construed  into 
a  miniature  reflection  of  London  wit  and  amusement.  His 
associates  never  advanced  beyond  this  stage,  but  with  Wash 
ington  Irving  the  sketches  which  he  wrote  under  the  signa- 


2  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

tore  of  Jonathan  Old  Style  and  in  the  medley  of  Sal 
magundi  were  only  the  first  experiments  of  a  mind  capa 
ble  of  larger  things.  After  five  or  six  years  of  trifling 
with  his  pen,  he  wrote  and  published,  in  1809,  A  History 
of  New  York,  by  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  which  he  be 
gan  in  company  with  his  brother  Peter  as  a  mere  jeu  d'es- 
prit,  but  turned  into  a  more  determined  work  of  humor,  as 
the  capabilities  of  the  subject  disclosed  themselves.  Grave 
historians  had  paid  little  attention  to  the  record  of  New 
York  under  the  Dutch ;  Irving,  who  saw  the  humorous 
contrast  between  the  traditional  Dutch  society  of  his  day 
and  the  pushing  new  democracy,  seized  upon  the  early 
history  and  made  it  the  occasion  for  a  good-natured 
burlesque.  He  shocked  the  old  families  about  him,  but  he 
amused  everybody  else,  and  the  book,  going  to  England, 
made  his  name  at  once  known  to  those  who  had  the  making 
there  of  literary  reputations. 

Irving  himself  was  born  of  a  Scottish  father  and  English 
mother,  who  had  come  to  this  country  only  twenty  years 
before.  He  was  but  little  removed,  therefore,  from  the  tra 
ditions  of  Great  Britain,  and  his  brothers  and  he  carried  on  a 
trading  business  with  the  old  country.  His  own  tastes  were 
not  mercantile,  and  he  was  only  silent  partner  in  the  house ; 
he  wrote  occasionally  and  was  for  a  time  the  editor  of  a  mag 
azine,  but  his  pleasure  was  chiefly  in  travel,  good  literature, 
and  good  society.  It  was  while  he  was  in  England,  in  1818, 
that  the  house  in  which  he  was  a  partner  failed,  and  he  was 
thrown  on  his  own  resources.  Necessity  gave  the  slight  spur 
which  was  wanting  to  his  inclination,  and  he  began  with 
deliberation  the  career  of  an  author.  He  had  found  himself 
at  home  in  England.  His  family  origin  and  his  taste  for 
the  best  literature  had  made  him  English  in  his  sympathies 
and  tastes,  and  his  residence  and  travels  there,  the  society 
which  he  entered  and  the  friends  he  made,  confirmed  him  in 
English  habits.  Nevertheless  he  was  sturdily  American  in 
his  principles ;  he  was  strongly  attached  to  New  York  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  8 

his  American  friends,  and  was  always  a  looker-on  in  Eng 
land.  His  foreign  birth  and  education  gave  him  significant 
advantages  as  an  observer  of  English  life,  and  he  at  once 
began  the  writing  of  those  papers,  stories,  and  sketches 
which  appeared  in  the  separate  numbers  of  The  Sketch 
Book,  in  Bracebridge  Jfall^  and  in  Tales  of  a  Traveller. 
They  were  chiefly  drawn  from  material  accumulated  abroad, 
but  an  occasional  American  subject  was  taken.  Irving  in 
stinctively  felt  that  by  the  circumstances  of  the  time  and  the 
bent  of  his  genius  he  could  pursue  his  calling  more  safely 
abroad  than  at  home.  He  remained  in  Europe  seventeen 
years,  sending  home  his  books  for  publication,  and  securing 
also  the  profitable  results  of  publication  in  London.  During 
that  time,  besides  the  books  above  named,  he  wrote  the 
History  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Christopher  Columbus  ; 
the  Voyages  and  Discoveries  of  the  Companions  of  Colum 
bus  ;  A  Chronicle  of  the  Conquest  of  Granada  ;  and  The 
Alhambra.  The  Spanish  material  was  obtained  while 
residing  in  Spain,  whither  he  went  at  the  suggestion  of  the 
American  minister  to  make  translations  of  documents  relat 
ing  to  the  voyages  of  Columbus  which  had  recently  been 
collected.  Irving's  training  and  tastes  led  him  rather  into 
the  construction  of  popular  narrative  than  into  the  work  of  a 
scientific  historian,  and,  with  his  strong  American  affections, 
he  was  quick  to  see  the  interest  and  value  which  lay  in  the 
history  of  Spain  as  connected  with  America.  He  was  emi 
nently  a  raconteur,  very  skilful  and  graceful  in  the  shaping 
of  old  material ;  his  humor  played  freely  over  the  surface  of 
his  writing,  and,  with  little  power  to  create  characters  or 
plots,  he  had  an  unfailing  perception  of  the  literary  capabil 
ities  of  scenes  and  persons  which  came  under  his  observation. 
He  came  back  to  America  in  1832  with  an  established 
reputation,  and  was  welcomed  enthusiastically  by  his  frienda 
and  countrymen.  He  travelled  into  the  new  parts  of  Amer 
ica,  and  spent  ten  years  at  home,  industriously  working  at 
the  material  which  had  accumulated  in  his  hands  when 


4  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

abroad,  and  had  been  increased  during  his  travels  in  the 
West.  In  this  period  he  published  Legends  of  the  Con 
quest  of  Spain;  The  Crayon  Miscellany,  including  his 
Tour  on  the  Prairies,  Albotsford  and  Newstead  Abbey; 
Astoria  ;  a  number  of  papers  in  the  Knickerbocker  Mago> 
zine,  afterwards  published  under  the  title  of  Wolfert's 
Roost ;  and  edited  the  Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville, 
U.  S.  A.,  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  the  Far  West. 

In  1842  he  went  back  to  Spain  as  American  minister, 
holding  the  office  for  four  years,  when  he  returned  to  Amer 
ica,  established  himself  at  his  home,  Sunnyside  on  the  banks 
of  the  Hudson,  and  remained  there  until  his  death  in  1859. 
The  fruits  of  this  final  period  were  Mahomet  and  his  Suc 
cessors,  which,  with  a  volume  of  posthumous  publication, 
Spanish  Papers  and  other  Miscellanies,  completed  the 
series  of  Spanish  and  Moorish  subjects  which  form  a  distinct 
part  of  his  writings ;  Oliver  Goldsmith,  a  Biography  ;  and 
finally  a  Life  of  Washington,  which  occupied  the  closing 
years  of  his  life,  —  years  which  were  not  free  from  physical 
suffering.  In  this  book  Irving  embodied  his  strong  admira 
tion  for  the  subject,  whose  name  he  bore  and  whose  blessing 
he  had  received  as  a  child ;  he  employed,  too,  a  pen  which  had 
been  trained  by  its  labors  on  the  Spanish  material,  and,  like 
that  series,  the  work  is  marked  by  good  taste,  artistic  sense 
of  proportion,  faithfulness,  and  candor,  rather  than  by  the 
severer  work  of  the  historian.  It  is  a  popular  and  a  fair 
life  of  Washington  and  account  of  the  war  for  independence. 

Irving's  personal  and  literary  history  is  recorded  in  The 
Life  and  Letters  of  Washington  Irving,  by  his  nephew, 
Pierre  M.  Irving.  His  death  was  the  occasion  of  many 
affectionate  and  graceful  eulogies  and  addresses,  a  numbei 
of  which  were  gathered  into  Irvingiana :  a  Memorial  of 
Washington  Irving. 

£ip  Van  Winkle  is  from  The  Sketch  Book. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  RIP  VAN   WINKLE. 

THE  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  purported  to  have  been 
ivritten  by  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  who  was  a  humorous  in 
vention  of  Irving's,  and  whose  name  was  familiar  to  the  pub* 
lie  as  the  author  of  A  History  of  New  York.  The  History 
was  published  in  1809,  but  it  was  ten  years  more  before 
the  first  number  of  The  Sketch  Book  of  Geoffrey  Crayon, 
Gent.,  was  published.  This  number,  which  contained  Hip 
Van  Winkle,  was,  like  succeeding  numbers,  written  by  Ir 
ving  in  England  and  sent  home  to  America  for  publication. 
He  laid  the  scene  of  the  story  in  the  Kaatskills,  but  he  drew 
upon  his  imagination  arid  the  reports  of  others  for  the  scen 
ery,  not  visiting  the  spot  until  1833.  The  story  is  not  ab 
solutely  new  ;  the  fairy  tale  of  The  Sleeping  Beauty  in  the 
Wood  has  the  same  theme  ;  so  has  the  story  of  Epimenides 
of  Crete,  who  lived  in  the  sixth  or  seventh  century  before 
Christ.  He  was  said  to  have  fallen  asleep  in  a  cave  when 
a  boy,  and  to  have  awaked  at  the  end  of  fifty-seven  years, 
his  soul,  meanwhile,  having  been  growing  in  stature.  There 
is  the  legend  also  of  the  Seven  Sleepers  of  Ephesus,  Chris 
tian  martyrs  who  were  walled  into  a  cave  to  which  they  had 
fled  for  refuge,  and  there  were  miraculously  preserved  for 
two  centuries.  Among  the  stories  in  which  the  Harz  Moun 
tains  of  Germany  are  so  prolific  is  one  of  Peter  Klaus,  a 
goatherd  who  was  accosted  one  day  by  a  young  man  who 
silently  beckoned  him  to  follow,  and  led  him  to  a  secluded 
spot,  where  he  found  twelve  knights  playing,  voiceless,  at 
skittles.  He  saw  a  can  of  wine  which  was  very  fragrant, 
and,  drinking  of  it,  was  thrown  into  a  deep  sleep,  from 
which  he  did  not  wake  for  twenty  years.  The  story  gives 


6  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

incidents  of  his  awaking  and  of  the  changes  which  he  found 
in  the  village  to  which  he  returned.  This  story,  which  was 
published  with  others  in  1800,  may  very  likely  have  been 
the  immediate  suggestion  to  Irving,  who  has  taken  nearly 
the  same  framework.  The  humorous  additions  which  he 
has  made,  and  the  grace  with  which  he  has  invested  the 
tale,  have  caused  his  story  to  supplant  earlier  ones  in  the 
popular  mind,  so  that  Rip  Van  Winkle  has  passed  into 
familiar  speech,  and  allusions  to  him  are  clearly  understood 
by  thousands  who  have  never  read  Irving's  story.  The 
recent  dramatizing  of  the  story,  though  following  the  out 
line  only,  has  done  much  to  fix  the  conception  of  the  char 
acter.  The  story  appeals  very  directly  to  a  common  senti 
ment  of  curiosity  as  to  the  future,  which  is  not  far  removed 
from  what  some  have  regarded  as  an  instinct  of  the  human 
mind  pointing  to  personal  immortality.  The  name  Van 
Winkle  was  happily  chosen  by  Irving,  but  not  invented  by 
him.  The  printer  of  the  Sketch  Book,  for  one,  bore  the 
name.  The  name  Knickerbocker,  also,  is  among  the  Dutch 
names,  but  Irving's  use  of  it  has  made  it  representative.  In 
The  Author's  Apology,  which  he  prefixed  to  a  new  edition 
of  the  History  of  New  York,  he  says  :  "I  find  its  very 
name  become  a  '  household  word,'  and  used  to  give  the 
home  stamp  to  everything  recommended  for  popular  accep 
tation,  such  as  Knickerbocker  societies  ;  Knickerbocker  in 
surance  companies  ;  Knickerbocker  steamboats  ;  Knicker 
bocker  omnibuses,  Knickerbocker  bread,  and  Knickerbocker 
ice  ;  and  .  .  .  New  Yorkers  of  Dutch  descent  priding  them 
selves  upon  being  '  genuine  Knickerbockers.'  " 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

A   POSTHTTMOUS   WRITING   OF  DIEDRICH   KNICKEBBOCKEB, 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday. 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre.  CABTWBIQHI.1 

THE  following  tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who 
was  very  curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the  province,  and  the 
manners  of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  settlers.  His  his 
torical  researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among  books 
as  among  men ;  for  the  former  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his 
favorite  topics  ;  whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers,  and  still 
more  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore  so  invaluable  to 
true  history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genuine 
Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse  under 
a  spreading  sycamore,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  vol 
ume  of  black-letter,  and  studied  it  with  the  zeal  of  a  book-worm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  province 
during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published 
some  years  since.  There  have  been  various  opinions  as  to  the 
literary  character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a 
whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its  scrupulous 
accuracy,  which  indeed  was  a  little  questioned  on  its  first  appear 
ance,  but  has  since  been  completely  established ;  and  it  is  now 
admitted  into  all  historical  collections,  as  a  book  or  unquestion 
able  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  hia 
work,  and  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much  harm 

1  William  Cartwright,  1611-1643,  was  a  friend  and  disciple  ef 
Ben  Jotuon. 


8  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

to  his  memory  *  to  say  that  his  time  might  have  been  much  bet 
ter  employed  in  weightier  labors.  He,  however,  was  apt  to  ride 
his  hobby  his  own  way  ;  and  though  it  did  now  and  then  kick  up 
the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit 
of  some  friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the  truest  deference  and  affec 
tion  ;  yet  his  errors  and  follies  are  remembered  "  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger,"  and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that  he  never  in 
tended  to  injure  or  offend.  But  however  his  memory  may  be 
appreciated  by  critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folk,  whose 
good  opinion  is  worth  having  ;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit- 
bakers,  who  have  gone  so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on  their 
new-year  cakes  ; 2  and  have  thus  given  him  a  chance  for  immor 
tality,  almost  equal  to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo  Medal, 
or  a  Queen  Anne's  Farthing.8 

1  The  History  of  New  York  had  given  offence  to  many  old 
New  Yorkers  because  of  its  saucy  treatment  of  names  which 
were  held  in  veneration  as  those  of  founders  of  families,  and  its 
general  burlesque  of  Dutch  character.  Among  the  critics  was  a 
warm  friend  of  Irving,  Gulian  C.  Verplanck,  who  in  a  discourse 
before  the  New  York  Historical  Society  plainly  said :  "  It  is 
painful  to  see  a  mind,  as  admirable  for  its  exquisite  perception 
of  the  beautiful  as  it  is  for  its  quick  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  wast 
ing  the  richness  of  its  fancy  on  an  ungrateful  theme,  and  its 
exuberant  humor  in  a  coarse  caricature."  Irving  took  the  cen 
sure  good-naturedly,  and  as  he  read  Verplanck's  words  just  as 
he  was  finishing  the  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  he  gave  them  this 
playful  notice  in  the  introduction. 

a  An  oblong  seed-cake,  still  made  in  New  York  at  New  Year's 
time,  and  of  Dutch  origin. 

8  There  was  a  popular  story  that  only  three  farthings  were 
struck  in  Queen  Anne's  reign  ;  that  two  were  in  public  keeping, 
and  that  the  third  was  no  one  knew  where,  but  that  its  lucky 
finder  would  be  able  to  hold  it  at  an  enormous  price.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact  there  were  eight  coinings  of  farthings  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne,  and  numismatists  do  not  set  a  high  value  on  the 
piece. 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  9 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must 
remember  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  They  are  a  dis 
membered  branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family, 
and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling 
up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over  the  surround 
ing  country.  Every  change  of  season,  every  change 
of  weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces 
some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these 
mountains,  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good 
wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers.  When  the 
weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue 
and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear 
evening  sky ;  but  sometimes  when  the  rest  of  the  land 
scape  is  cloudless  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray 
vapors  about  their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of 
the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of 
glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy 1  mountains,  the  voyager 
may  have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a 
village,  whose  shingle-roofs  gleam  among  the  trees, 
just  where  the  blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into 
the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little 
village  of  great  antiquity,  having  been  founded  by 
some  of  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  time  of  the 
province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  government 
of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant,2  (may  he  rest  in  peace !) 
and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the  original  set 
tlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small  yellow 

1  A  light  touch  to  help  the  reader  into  a  proper  spirit  for  re 
ceiving  the  tale. 

2  Stuyvesant  was  governor  of  New  Netherlands  from  1647  to 
1664.     He  plays  an  important  part  in  Knickerbocker's  History  of 
New  York,  as  he  did  in  actual  life.     Until  quite  recently  a  pear 
tree  was  shown  on  the  Bowery,  said  to  have  been  planted  by 
him. 


10  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  windows 
and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn 
and  weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since, 
while  the  country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain, 
a  simple,  good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles 
who  figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege 
of  Fort  Christina.1  He  inherited,  however,  but  little 
of  the  martial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have 
observed  that  he  was  a  simple,  good-natured  man ;  he 
was,  moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient  hen 
pecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance 
might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained 
him  such  universal  popularity;  for  those  men  are 
most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad, 
who  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home. 
Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  mal 
leable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation ;  and 
a  curtain  lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world 
for  teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering. 
A  termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects  be 
considered  a  tolerable  blessing,  and  if  so,  Rip  Van 
Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all 
the  good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the 
amiable  sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles; 
and  never  failed,  whenever  they  talked  those  matters 

1  The  Van  Winkles  appear  in  the  illustrious  catalogue  of 
heroes  who  accompanied  Stuyvesant  to  Fort  Christina,  and  were 

"  Brimful  of  wrath  and  cabbage." 

See  History  of  New  York,  book  VI.  chap.  viii. 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  11 

over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame 
on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the  village, 
too,  would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached. 
He  assisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings, 
taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told 
them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians. 
Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was 
surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts, 
clambering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks 
on  him  with  impunity ;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at 
him  throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insu 
perable  aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It 
could  not  be  from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  persever 
ance  ;  for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as 
long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day 
without  a  murmur,  even  though  he  should  not  be  en 
couraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would  carry  a  fowl 
ing-piece  on  his  shoulder  for  hours  together,  trudging 
through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down 
dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He 
would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor,  even  in  the 
roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country 
frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone- 
fences  ;  the  women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ 
him  to  run  their  errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd 
jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands  would  not  do  for 
them.  In  a  word,  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  any 
body's  business  but  his  own  ;  but  as  to  doing  family 
duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  im 
possible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his 
farm;  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground 
in  the  whole  country;  everything  about  it  went  wrong, 


12  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

and  would  go  wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences 
were  continually  falling  to  pieces ;  his  cow  would  eithei 
go  astray  or  get  among  the  cabbages  ;  weeds  were  sure 
to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else  ;  the 
rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had 
some  out-door  work  to  do ;  so  that  though  his  patri 
monial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under  his  manage 
ment,  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more  left 
than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it 
was  the  worst-conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if 
they  belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  be 
gotten  in  his  own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the 
habits,  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father.  He  was 
generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's 
heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-off  galli 
gaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one 
hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy 
mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the 
world  easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can 
be  got  with  least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather 
starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to 
himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in  perfect 
contentment ;  but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in 
his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the 
ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his  family.  Morning,  noon, 
and  night  her  tongue  was  incessantly  going,  and  every 
thing  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a  torrent  of 
household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of  reply 
ing  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent 
use,  had  grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  no 
thing.  This,  however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  volley 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  18 

from  his  wife;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his 
forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house  —  the  only 
side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked  husband. 

Kip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who 
was  as  much  henpecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van 
Winkle  regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and 
even  looked  upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause 
of  his  master's  going  so  often  astray.  True  it  is,  in 
all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable  dog,  he  was 
as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods  — 
but  what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and 
all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue  ?  The  mo 
ment  Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crest  fell,  his  tail 
drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his  legs,  he 
sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a  side 
long  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least 
flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle  he  would  fly  to  the 
door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle 
as  years  of  matrimony  rolled  on ;  a  tart  temper  never 
mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged 
tool  that  grows  keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long 
while  he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven  from 
home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the 
sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the 
village ;  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a 
small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  His 
Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in 
the  shade  through  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking 
listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy 
stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth 
any  statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound  dia 
cussions  that  sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance  an 
old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing 


14  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

traveller.  How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  con 
tents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the 
school-master,  a  dapper  learned  little  man,  who  was 
not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the 
dictionary ;  and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon 
public  events  some  months  after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  con 
trolled  by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village, 
and  landlord  of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he 
took  his  seat  from  morning  till  night,  just  moving  suf 
ficiently  to  avoid  the  sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a 
large  tree  ;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by 
his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is 
true  he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe 
incessantly.  His  adherents,  however  (for  every  great 
man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly  understood  him,  and 
knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions.  When  anything 
that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he  was  ob 
served  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth 
short,  frequent  and  angry  puffs;  but  when  pleased, he 
would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and 
emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds ;  and  sometimes,  tak 
ing  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant 
vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head 
in  token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at 
length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  sud 
denly  break  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage 
and  call  the  members  all  to  naught ;  nor  was  that 
august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred 
from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who 
charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in 
habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair; 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  15 

and  his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of 
the  farm  and  clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in 
hand  and  stroll  away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would 
sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share 
the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he 
sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "  Poor 
Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's 
life  of  it ;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou 
shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee !  "  Wolf 
would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face, 
and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity  I  verily  believe  he  recipro 
cated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal 
day,  Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the 
highest  parts  of  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  He  was 
after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the 
still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  reechoed  with  the  re 
ports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw 
himself,  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll,  cov 
ered  with  mountain  herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow 
of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the  trees 
he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a 
mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the 
lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent 
but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple 
cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there 
sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in 
the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  moun 
tain  glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled 
with  fragments  from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely 
lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For 
some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene ;  evening  was 
gradually  advancing ;  the  mountains  began  to  throw 


16  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

their  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys ;  he  saw  that 
it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village, 
and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  en 
countering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from 
1  distance,  hallooing,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle !  Rip  Van 
Winkle ! "  He  looked  round,  but  could  see  nothing 
but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight  across  the  moun 
tain.  He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him, 
and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the  same 
cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air:  "Rip  Van 
Winkle !  Rip  Van  Winkle !  "  —  at  the  same  time  Wolf 
bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked 
to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the 
glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing 
over  him ;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction, 
and  perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the 
rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he 
carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any 
human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place ; 
but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood 
in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at 
the  singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was 
a  short,  square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair, 
and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique 
Dutch  fashion:  a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the 
waist,  several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample 
Volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the 
rides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his 
shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and 
made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with 
the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this 
new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alae- 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  17 

rity ;  and  mutually  relieving  one  another,  they  clam 
bered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a 
mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now 
and  then  heard  long  rolling  peals  like  distant  thunder, 
that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather 
cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  toward  which  their  rugged 
path  conducted.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  but  sup 
posing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those  transient 
thunder-showers  which  often  take  place  in  mountain 
heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine, 
they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  sur 
rounded  by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks 
of  which  impending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that 
you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the 
bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Rip  and 
his  companion  had  labored  on  in  silence ;  for  though 
the  former  marvelled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object 
of  carrying  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet 
there  was  something  strange  and  incomprehensible 
about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe  and  checked 
familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre 
was  a  company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at 
ninepins.  They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish 
fashion  ;  some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with 
long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enor 
mous  breeches  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's. 
Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar;  one  had  a  large 
beard,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes ;  the  face  of 
another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was 
surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a 
little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of  various 
shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be 


18  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with 
a  weather-beaten  countenance  ;  he  wore  a  laced  doub 
let,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and 
feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with 
roses  in  them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the 
figures  in  an  old  Flemish  painting  in  the  parlor  of 
Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village  parson,  which  had 
been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the 
settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that 
though  these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves, 
yet  they  maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mys 
terious  silence,  and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy 
party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing 
interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of 
the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed 
along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they 
suddenly  desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him 
with  such  fixed,  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  un 
couth,  lack-lustre  countenances,  that  his  heart  turned 
within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  together.  His  com 
panion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large 
flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  com 
pany.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they 
quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  re 
turned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided. 
He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to 
taste  the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the 
flavor  of  excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a 
thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the 
draught.  One  taste  provoked  another  ;  and  he  reiter 
ated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length  his 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  19 

senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head, 
his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  —  it  was  a  bright,  sunny  morning. 
The  birds  were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the 
bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breast 
ing  the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "  Surely,"  thought 
Rip,  "  I  have  not  slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled 
the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange 
man  with  a  keg  of  liquor  —  the  mountain  ravine  — 
the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks  —  the  woe-begone 
party  at  nine-pins  —  the  flagon  —  "  Oh  !  that  flagon  I 
that  wicked  flagon  I  "  thought  Rip  —  "  what  excuse 
shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the 
clean,  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  fire 
lock  lying  by  him,  the  barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the 
lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now 
suspected  that  the  grave  roisters  of  the  mountain  had 
put  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with  li 
quor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  dis 
appeared,  but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a 
squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him,  and 
shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain ;  the  echoes  repeated 
his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  even 
ing's  gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to 
demand  his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he 
found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his 
usual  activity.  "  These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree 
with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "  and  if  this  frolic  should  lay 
me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a 


20  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  "Winkle."  "With  some 
difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen  ;  he  found  the 
gully  up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended 
the  preceding  evening ;  but  to  his  astonishment  a 
mountain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling 
murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its 
sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets  of 
birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and  sometimes 
tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grapevines  that 
twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and 
spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had 
opened  through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre  ;  but  no 
traces  of  such  opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented 
a  high,  impenetrable  wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came 
tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a 
broad,  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the  sur 
rounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought 
to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his 
dog ;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock 
of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree 
that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice  ;  and  who,  secure  in 
their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the 
poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  the 
morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for 
want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog 
and  gun ;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife  ;  but  it  would 
not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his 
head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart 
full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  home 
ward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of 
people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  sur- 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  21 

prised  him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted 
with  every  one  in  the  country  round.  Their  dress, 
too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he 
was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal 
marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes 
upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  con 
stant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip,  involun 
tarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he 
found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A 
troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting 
after  him,  and  pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs, 
too,  not  one  of  which  he  recognized  for  an  old  ac 
quaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The  very 
village  was  altered  ;  it  was  larger  and  more  populous. 
There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen 
before,  and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts 
had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the  doors 
—  strange  faces  at  the  windows,  —  everything  was 
strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him ;  he  began  to 
doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him 
were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  vil 
lage,  which  he  had  left  but  the  day  before.  There 
stood  the  Kaatskill  Mountains  —  there  ran  the  silver 
Hudson  at  a  distance  —  there  was  every  hill  and  dale 
precisely  as  it  had  always  been  —  Rip  was  sorely  per 
plexed  —  "  That  flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "  has 
addled  my  poor  head  sadly  1  " 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way 
to  his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent 
awe,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice 
>f  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to 
decay  —  the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered, 
and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half-starved  dog  that 


22  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called 
him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth, 
and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed  — 
"My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "has  forgotten 
me!" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was 
empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned.  This  deso- 
lateness  overcame  all  his  connubial  fears  —  he  called 
loudly  for  his  wife  and  children  —  the  lonely  cham 
bers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then  again 
all  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  re 
sort,  the  village  inn  —  but  it,  too,  was  gone.  A  large, 
rickety  wooden  building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great 
gaping  windows,  some  of  them  broken  and  mended 
with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was 
painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle." 
Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet 
little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall 
naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that  looked  like 
a  red  night-cap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on 
which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes 
—  all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He 
recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of 
King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a 
peaceful  pipe  ;  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamor 
phosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue 
and  buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a 
sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat, 
and  underneath  was  painted  in  large  characters,  GEN 
ERAL  WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door, 
but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of 


RIP   VAN  WINKLE.  23 

the  people  seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bus 
tling,  disputatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accus 
tomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He  looked  in 
vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad 
face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds 
of  tobacco-smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches ;  or  Van 
Bummel,  the  school-master,  doling  forth  the  contents 
of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a  lean, 
bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  hand 
bills,  was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of  citi 
zens  —  elections  —  members  of  congress  —  liberty  — 
Bunker's  Hill  —  heroes  of  seventy-six — and  other 
words,  which  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the 
bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard, 
his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army 
of  women  and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  tavern-politicians.  They  crowded 
round  him,  eying  him  from  head  to  foot  with  great 
curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and,  draw 
ing  him  partly  aside,  inquired  "on  which  side  he 
voted  ?  "  Rip  started  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another 
short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm, 
and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "  Whether 
he  was  Federal  or  Democrat  ?  "  Rip  was  equally  at 
a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question ;  when  a  knowing, 
self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat, 
made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the 
right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  plant 
ing  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo, 
the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp 
hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  de 
manded  in  an  austere  tone,  "  what  brought  him  to  the 
election,  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his 


24  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the 
village  ?  "  —  "  Alas !  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat 
dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the 
place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  king,  God  bless 
him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders  — 
**  A  tory  I  a  tory !  a  spy !  a  refugee !  hustle  him ! 
away  with  him  !  "  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that 
the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored 
order;  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of 
brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit  what 
he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking  ?  The 
poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm, 
but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neigh 
bors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well  —  who  are  they  ?  —  name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired, 
"  Where 's  Nicholas  Vedder  ?  " 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old 
man  replied,  in  a  thin,  piping  voice :  "  Nicholas  Ved 
der  !  why,  he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years ! 
There  was  a  wooden  tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that 
used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that 's  rotten  and  gone 
too." 

"  Where  's  Brom  Dutcher?  " 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of 
the  war ;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of 
Stony  Point 1  —  others  say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall 
at  the  foot  of  Antony's  Nose.2  I  don't  know  —  he 
never  came  back  again." 

1  On  the  Hudson.    The  place  is  famous  for  the  daring  assault 
>de  by  Mad  Anthony  Wayne,  July  15,  1779. 
8  A  few  miles  above  Stony  Point  is  the  promontory  of  An 
tony's  Nose.     If  we  are  to  believe  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  it 


RIP   VAN  WINKLE.  36 

"  Where  's  Van  Bummel,  the  school-master?" 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  militia 
general,  and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Kip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad 
changes  in  his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself 
thus  alone  in  the  world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him 
too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and 
of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand:  war  — 
Congress  —  Stony  Point;  he  had  no  courage  to  ask 
after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair, 
"  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle  I  "  exclaimed  two  or  three, 
**  Oh,  to  be  sure !  that 's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  lean 
ing  against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of 
himself,  as  he  went  up  the  mountain :  apparently  as 
lazy,  and  certainly  as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was 
now  completely  confounded.  He  doubted  his  own 
identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man. 

was  named  after  Antony  Van  Corlear,  Stuyvesant's  trumpeter. 
"  It  must  be  known,  then,  that  the  nose  of  Antony  the  trum 
peter  was  of  a  very  lusty  size,  strutting  boldly  from  his  counte 
nance  like  a  mountain  of  Golconda.  .  .  .  Now  thus  it  happened, 
that  bright  and  early  in  the  morning  the  good  Antony,  having 
washed  his  burly  visage,  was  leaning  over  the  quarter  railing  of 
the  galley,  contemplating  it  in  the  glassy  wave  below.  Just  at 
this  moment  the  illustrious  sun,  breaking  in  all  his  splendor 
from  behind  a  high  bluff  of  the  highlands,  did  dart  one  of  his 
most  potent  beams  full  upon  the  refulgent  nose  of  the  sounder 
of  brass  —  the  reflection  of  which  shot  straightway  down,  hissing 
hot,  into  the  water  and  killed  a  mighty  sturgeon  that  was  sport 
ing  beside  the  vessel  !  .  .  .  When  this  astonishing  miracle  came 
to  be  made  known  to  Peter  Stuyvesant  he  ...  marvelled  ex 
ceedingly  ;  and  as  a  monument  thereof,  he  gave  the  name  of 
Antony's  Nose  to  a  stout  promontory  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
it  has  continued  to  be  called  Antony's  Nose  ever  since  that 
time."  History  of  New  York:,  book  VI.  chap.  iv. 


26  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the 
cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his 
name? 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end ;  "  I  'm 
not  myself  —  I  'm  somebody  else — that 's  me  yonder 
—  no  —  that 's  somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes  —  I 
was  myself  last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  moun 
tain,  and  they  've  changed  my  gun,  and  everything's 
changed,  and  I  'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell  what 's  my 
name,  or  who  I  am !  " 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other, 
nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against 
their  foreheads.  There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about 
securing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from 
doing  mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the 
self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some 
precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely 
woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at 
the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her 
arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry. 
"  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you  little  fool ;  the 
old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the 
air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened 
a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "  What  is  your 
name,  my  good  woman  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Judith  Gardenier." 

**  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"Ah,  poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name, 
but  it 's  twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home 
with  his  gun,  and  never  has  been  heard  of  since,  — 
his  dog  came  home  without  him ;  but  whether  he  shot 
himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody 
can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  and  he  put 
it  with  a  faltering  voice :  — 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  27 

"  Where 's  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since ;  she 
broke  a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  Eng 
land  peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort  at  least,  in  this  intel 
ligence.  The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no 
longer.  He  caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his 
arms.  "  I  am  your  father !  "  cried  he  —  "  Young  Rip 
Van  Winkle  once  —  old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now !  Does 
nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman  tottering  out 
from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and 
peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed, 
"Sure  enough  it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself! 
Welcome  home  again,  old  neighbor  —  Why,  where 
have  you  been  these  twenty  long  years  ?  " 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty 
years  had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neigh 
bors  stared  when  they  heard  it;  some  were  seen  to 
wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their  tongues  in  their 
cheeks ;  and  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat, 
who  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the 
field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and 
shook  his  head  —  upon  which  there  was  a  general 
shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of 
old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advan 
cing  up  the  road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  histo 
rian  of  that  name,1  who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest 
accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most  ancient 
inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the 
wonderful  events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood. 
He  recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story 
1  Adrian  Yauderdouk. 


28  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He  assured  the 
company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his 
ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  Mountains 
had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it 
was  affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first 
discoverer  of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of 
vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the 
Half -moon ;  being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the 
scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon 
the  river  and  the  great  city  called  by  his  name. 
That  his  father  had  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch 
dresses  playing  at  ninepins  in  a  hollow  of  the  moun 
tain;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer 
afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls  like  distant  peals  of 
thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up, 
and  returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the 
election.  Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with 
her ;  she  had  a  snug  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout 
cheery  farmer  for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  recollected 
for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon  his 
back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of 
himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed 
to  work  on  the  farm ;  but  evinced  an  hereditary  dis 
position  to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits ;  he  soon 
found  many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather 
the  worse  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  time  ;  and  preferred 
making  friends  among  the  rising  generation,  with 
whom  he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at 
that  happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impu 
nity,  he  took  his  place  once  more  on  the  bench  at  the 
inn  door,  and  was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE.  29 

of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle  of  the  old  times  "  before 
the  war."  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  get  into 
the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  com 
prehend  the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place  dur 
ing  his  torpor.  How  that  there  had  been  a  revolu 
tionary  war  —  that  the  country  had  thrown  off  the 
yoke  of  old  England  —  and  that,  instead  of  being  a 
subject  of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now 
a  f ree  citizen  of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was 
no  politician  ;  the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made 
but  little  impression  on  him ;  but  there  was  one  spe 
cies  of  despotism  under  which  he  had  long  groaned, 
and  that  was  —  petticoat  government.  Happily  that 
was  at  an  end  ;  he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of 
matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever  he 
pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned,  how 
ever,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
cast  up  his  eyes,  which  might  pass  either  for  an  ex« 
pression  of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliv- 
erance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  ar* 
rived  at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at 
first,  to  vary  on  some  points  every  time  he  told  it, 
which  was,  doubtless,  owing  to  his  having  so  recently 
awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down  precisely  to  the  tale 
I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the 
neighborhood  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always 
pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that 
Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one 
point  on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old 
Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally  gave 
it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never  hear  a 
thunder-storm  of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Kaats- 


30  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

kill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are 
at  their  game  of  ninepins ;  and  it  is  a  common  wish 
of  all  henpecked  husbands  in  the  neighborhood,  when 
life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have 
a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 

NOTE. 

The  foregoing  Tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to 
Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the 
Emperor  Frederick  der  Rothbart,1  and  the  Kypphaiiser  moun 
tain  ;  the  subjoined  note,  however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the 
tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated  with  his  usual 
fidelity. 

"  The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many, 
but  nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity 
of  our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  mar 
vellous  events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many 
stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along  the  Hudson  ;  all 
of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have 
even  talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last  I  saw 
him,  was  a  very  old  venerable  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and 
consistent  on  every  other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious 
person  could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain  ;  nay,  I  havo 
seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a  country  justice 
and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own  handwriting.  The 
•tory  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt. 

"D.  K." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book 
of  Mr.  Knickerbocker  :  — 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a  re 
gion  full  of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of 
spirits,  who  influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds 

1  Frederick  I.  of  Germany,  1121-1190,  called  Barbarossa,  der 
Rothbart  (Redbeard  or  Rufus),  was  fabled  not  to  have  died  but 
to  have  gone  into  a  long  sleep,  from  which  he  would  awake 
when  Germany  should  need  him.  The  same  legend  was  told  by 
the  Danes  of  their  Uolger. 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  81 

over  the  landscape,  and  sending  good  or  bad  hunting  seasons. 
They  were  ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be  their  mother. 
She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Catskills,  and  had  charge 
of  the  doors  of  day  and  night  to  open  and  shut  them  at  the 
proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons  in  the  skies,  and  cut 
up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  properly 
propitiated,  she  would  spin  light  summer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs 
and  morning  dew,  and  send  them  off  from  the  crest  of  the  moun 
tain,  flake  after  flake,  like  flakes  of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the 
air  ;  until,  dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in 
gentle  showers,  causing  the  grass  to  spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen, 
and  the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased,  however, 
she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst  of 
them  like  a  bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web  ;  and 
when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  the  valleys  ! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of 
Manitou  or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the 
Catskill  Mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking 
all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations  upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes 
he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a  deer,  lead 
the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tangled  forest  and 
among  ragged  rocks  ;  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud  ho  I  ho ! 
leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging 
torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a 
great  rock  or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and 
from  the  flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild 
flowers  which  abound  in  its  neighborhood,  is  known  by  the  name 
of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  small  lake,  the 
haunt  of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water-snakes  basking  in  the 
sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies  which  lie  on  the  surface. 
This  place  was  held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that 
the  boldest  hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game  within  its  pre 
cincts.  Once  upon  a  time,  however,  a  hunter,  who  had  lost  his 
way,  penetrated  to  the  Garden  Rock,  where  he  beheld  a  number 
of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of  trees.  One  of  these  he  seized 
and  made  off  with  it,  but  in  the  hurry  of  his  retreat  he  let  it 
fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed  forth,  which 
washed  him  away  and  swept  him  down  precipices,  where  he  was 
dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the  Hudson, 
and  continues  to  flow  to  the  present  day  ;  being  the  identical 
stream  known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaters-kill. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  was  born  at  Cummington, 
Massachusetts,  November  3, 1794 ;  he  died  in  New  York, 
June  12,  1878.  His  first  poem,  The  Embargo,  was  pub 
lished  in  Boston  in  1809,  and  was  written  when  he  was  but 
thirteen  years  old ;  his  last  poem,  Our  Fellow  Worshippers, 
was  published  in  1878.  His  long  life  thus  was  a  long 
career  as  a  writer,  and  his  first  published  poem  prefigured 
the  twofold  character  of  his  literary  life,  for  while  it  was  in 
poetic  form  it  was  more  distinctly  a  political  article.  He 
showed  very  early  a  taste  for  poetry,  and  was  encouraged 
to  read  and  write  verse  by  his  father,  Dr.  Peter  Bryant,  a 
country  physician  of  strong  character  and  cultivated  tastes. 
He  was  sent  to  Williams  College  in  the  fall  of  1810,  where 
he  remained  two  terms,  when  he  decided  to  leave  and  enter 
Yale  College ;  but  pecuniary  troubles  interfered  with  his 
plans,  and  he  never  completed  his  college  course.  He  pur 
sued  his  literary  studies  at  home,  then  began  the  study  of 
law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1815.  Meantime  he 
had  been  continuing  to  write,  and  during  this  period  wrote 
with  many  corrections  and  changes  the  poem  by  which  he 
is  still  perhaps  best  known,  Thanatopsis.  It  was  published 
in  the  North  American  Review  for  September,  1817,  and 
the  same  periodical  published  a  few  months  afterward  bis 
lines  To  a  Waterfowl,  one  of  the  most  characteristic  and 
lovely  of  Bryant's  poems.  Literature  divided  his  attention 
with  law,  but  evidently  had  his  heart.  In  1821  he  was 


34  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

invited  to  read  a  poem  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society 
of  Harvard  College,  and  he  read  The  Ages,  a  stately  grave 
poem  which  shows  his  own  poetic  power,  his  familiarity 
with  the  great  masters  of  literature,  and  his  lofty,  philoso 
phic  nature.  Shortly  after  this  he  issued  a  small  volume  of 
poems,  and  his  name  began  to  be  known  as  that  of  the  first 
American  who  had  written  poetry  that  could  take  its  place 
in  universal  literature.  His  own  decided  preference  for  lit 
erature,  and  the  encouragement  of  friends,  led  to  his  aban 
donment  of  the  law  in  1825,  and  his  removal  to  New  York, 
where  he  undei'took  the  associate  editorship  of  The  New 
York  Review  and  Athenceum  Magazine.  Poetic  genius  is 
not  caused  or  controlled  by  circumstance,  but  a  purely  liter 
ary  life  in  a  country  not  yet  educated  in  literature  was 
impossible  to  a  man  of  no  other  means  of  support,  and  in  a 
few  months,  after  the  .Review  had  vainly  tried  to  maintain 
life  by  a  frequent  change  of  name,  Bryant  accepted  an 
appointment  as  assistant  editor  of  the  Evening  Post.  From 
1826,  then,  until  his  death,  Bryant  was  a  journalist  by  pro 
fession.  One  effect  of  this  change  in  his  life  was  to  elimi 
nate  from  his  poetry  that  political  character  which  was  dis 
played  in  his  first  published  poem  and  had  several  times  since 
shown  itself.  Thenceafter  he  threw  into  his  journalistic 
occupation  all  those  thoughts  and  experiences  which  made 
him  by  nature  a  patriot  and  political  thinker ;  he  reserved 
for  poetry  the  calm  reflection,  love  of  nature,  and  purity  of 
aspiration  which  made  him  a  poet.  His  editorial  writing 
was  made  strong  and  pure  by  his  cultivated  taste  and  lofty 
ideals,  but  he  presented  the  rare  combination  of  a  poet  who 
never  sacrificed  his  love  of  high  literature  and  his  devotion 
to  art,  and  of  a  publicist  who  retained  a  sound  judgment 
and  pursued  the  most  practical  ends. 

His  life  outwardly  was  uneventful.  He  made  four  jour 
neys  to  Europe,  in  1834,  1845,  1852,  1857,  and  he  made 
frequent  tours  in  his  own  country.  His  observations  on  his 
travels  were  published  in  Letters  from  a  Traveller,  Letters 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  35 

from  the  East,  and  Letters  from  Spain  and  other  Coun 
tries.  He  never  held  public  office,  except  that  in  1860  he 
was  a  presidential  elector,  but  he  was  connected  intimately 
with  important  movements  in  society,  literature,  and  politics, 
and  was  repeatedly  called  upon  to  deliver  addresses  com 
memorative  of  eminent  citizens,  as  of  Washington  Irving, 
and  James  Fenimore  Cooper,  and  at  the  unveiling  of  the 
bust  of  Mazzini  in  the  Central  Park.  His  Orations  and 
Addresses  have  been  gathered  into  a  volume. 

The  bulk  of  his  poetry  apart  from  his  poetic  translations 
is  not  considerable,  and  is  made  up  almost  wholly  of  short 
poems  which  are  chiefly  inspired  by  his  love  of  nature.  R. 
H.  Dana  in  his  preface  to  The  Idle  Man  says :  "  I  shall 
never  forget  with  what  feeling  my  friend  Bryant  some 
years  ago  1  described  to  me  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by 
his  meeting  for  the  first  time  with  Wordsworth's  Ballads. 
He  lived,  when  quite  young,  where  but  few  works  of  poetry 
were  to  be  had ;  at  a  period,  too,  when  Pope  was  still  the 
great  idol  of  the  Temple  of  Art.  He  said  that  upon  open 
ing  Wordsworth  a  thousand  springs  seemed  to  gush  up  at 
once  in  his  heart,  and  the  face  of  nature  of  a  sudden  to 
change  into  a  strange  freshness  and  life." 

This  was  the  interpreting  power  of  Wordsworth  suddenly 
disclosing  to  Bryant,  not  the  secrets  of  nature,  but  his  own 
powers  of  perception  and  interpretation.  Bryant  is  in  no 
sense  an  imitator  of  Wordsworth,  but  a  comparison  of  the 
two  poets  would  be  of  great  interest  as  showing  how  indi 
vidually  each  pursued  the  same  general  poetic  end.  Words 
worth's  Three  Years  She  Grew  in  Sun  and  Shower  and 
Bryant's  0  J?airest  of  the  Rural  Maids  offer  an  admirable 
opportunity  for  disclosing  the  separate  treatment  of  similar 
subjects.  In  Bryant's  lines,  musical  and  full  of  a  gentle  rev- 
ery,  the  poet  seems  to  go  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  forest, 
almost  forgetful  of  the  "  fairest  of  the  rural  maids ; "  in 
Wordsworth's  lines,  with  what  simple  yet  profound  feeling 

1  This  was  written  in  1833. 


86  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

the  poet,  after  delicately  disclosing  the  interchange  of  nature 
and  human  life,  returns  into  those  depths  of  human  sympa 
thy  where  nature  must  forever  remain  as  a  remote  shadow. 

Bryant  translated  many  short  poems  from  the  Spanish 
but  his  largest  literary  undertaking  was  the  translation  oi 
the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  of  Homer.  He  brought  to  this  task 
great  requisite  powers,  and  if  there  is  any  failure  it  is  in  the 
absence  of  Homer's  lightness  and  rapidity,  qualities  which 
the  elasticity  of  the  Greek  language  especially  favored. 

A  pleasant  touch  of  a  simple  humor  appeared  in  some  of 
his  social  addresses,  and  occasionally  is  found  in  his  poems, 
as  in  Robert  of  Lincoln.  Suggestions  of  personal  experi 
ence  will  be  read  in  such  poems  as  The  Cloud  on  the  Way, 
The  Life  that  Is,  and  in  the  half -autobiographic  poem,  A 
Lifetime* 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides  a 

Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  the  spirit,  and  sad  images  w 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart  5  — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  —         u 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice  —  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears,         20 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go  M 

To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 


57840 


88  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould,     a 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth  —  the  wise,  the  good,         » 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun,  —  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods  —  rivers  that  move  «o 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round 

all, 

Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun,  45 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  —  Take  the  wings  so 

Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings  —  yet  the  dead  are  there  : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first  5t 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 


TO  A    WATERFOWL.  39 

Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?    All  that  breathe          « 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come  « 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man  —      w 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take         » 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch  80 

About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 


46  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 
Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 

Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide,  » 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air  —  18 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near.  * 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven  * 

Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight,  so 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 


BIOGEAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

IN  reading  the  life  of  Franklin  we  are  constantly  sur 
prised  at  the  versatility  of  his  powers.  He  achieved  an  un 
dying  reputation  as  a  man  of  business,  as  a  scientist,  as  a 
writer,  as  a  statesman,  and  as  a  diplomatist.  It  is  impossi 
ble  to  give  here  an  adequate  idea  of  his  greatness  or  of  the 
debt  of  gratitude  which  we  all  owe  him  for  the  help  he  ren 
dered  our  nation  in  times  of  sore  need.  For  the  events  of 
his  life  the  reader  is  referred  to  his  Autobiography1  —  a 
classic  masterpiece  with  which  every  American  should  be 
familiar.  What  follows  is  a  review  of  Franklin's  character 
by  John  T.  Morse,  Jr.,  at  the  end  of  his  admirable  bio 
graphy  of  Franklin,  in  the  American  Statesmen  Series :  — 

"Among  illustrious  Americans  Franklin  stands  pree'mi- 
nent  in  the  interest  which  is  aroused  by  a  study  of  his  char 
acter,  his  mind  and  his  career.  One  becomes  attached  to 
him,  bids  him  farewell  with  regret,  and  feels  that  for  such 
as  he  the  longest  span  of  life  is  all  too  short.  Even  though 
dead,  he  attracts  a  personal  regard  which  renders  easily 
intelligible  the  profound  affection  which  so  many  men  felt 
for  him  while  living.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  one 
man  ever  had  so  many,  such  constant,  and  such  firm  friends 
as  in  three  different  nations  formed  about  him  a  veritable 
host.  In  the  States  and  in  France  he  was  loved,  and  as  he 
grew  into  old  age  he  was  revered,  not  by  those  who  heard 

1  See  Riverside  Literature  Series,  Nos.  19  and  20. 


42  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

of  him  only,  but  most  warmly  by  those  who  best  knew  him. 
Even  in  England,  where  for  years  he  was  the  arch  rebel  of 
all  America,  he  was  generally  held  in  respect  and  esteem, 
and  had  many  constant  friends  whose  confidence  no  events 
could  shake.  .  .  .  Moral,  intellectual,  and  material  boons 
he  conferred  in  such  abundance  that  few  such  benefactors 
of  the  race  can  be  named,  though  one  should  survey  all  the 
ages.  A  man  of  a  greater  humanity  never  lived :  and  the 
quality  which  stood  Abou  Ben  Adhem  in  good  stead  should 
suffice  to  save  Franklin  from  human  criticism.  He  not  only 
loved  his  kind,  but  he  also  trusted  them  with  an  implicit 
confidence,  reassuring  if  not  extraordinary  in  an  observer  of 
his  shrewdness  and  experience.  .  .  . 

"  Franklin's  inborn  ambition  was  the  noblest  of  all  ambi 
tions  :  to  be  of  practical  use  to  the  multitude  of  men.  The 
chief  motive  of  his  life  was  to  promote  the  welfare  of  man 
kind.  Every  moment  which  he  could  snatch  from  enforced 
occupations  was  devoted  to  doing,  devising,  or  suggesting 
something  advantageous  more  or  less  generally  to  men.  .  .  . 
His  desire  was  to  see  the  community  prosperous,  comfortable, 
happy,  advancing  in  the  accumulation  of  money  and  of  all 
physical  goods,  but  not  to  the  point  of  luxury ;  it  was  by  no 
means  the  pile  of  dollars  which  was  his  end,  and  he  did  not 
care  to  see  many  men  rich,  but  rather  to  see  all  men  well 
to  do.  He  was  perfectly  right  in  thinking  that  virtuous  liv 
ing  has  the  best  prospects  in  a  well-to-do  society.  He  gave 
liberally  of  his  own  means  and  induced  others  to  give,  and 
promoted  in  proportion  to  the  ability  of  the  community  a 
surprising  number  of  public  and  quasi-public  enterprises, 
and  always  the  fireside  of  the  poor  man  was  as  much  in  his 
thought  as  the  benefit  of  the  richer  circle.  Fair  dealing  and 
kindliness,  prudence  and  economy  in  order  to  procure  the 
comforts  and  simpler  luxuries  of  life,  reading  and  knowledge 
for  those  uses  which  wisdom  subserves,  constituted  the  real 
essence  of  his  teaching.  His  inventive  genius  was  ever  at 
work  devising  methods  of  making  daily  life  more  agreeable, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  43 

comfortable,  and  wholesome  for  all  who  have  to  live.  In 
a  word,  the  service  of  his  fellow-men  was  his  constant  aim ; 
and  he  so  served  them  that  those  public  official  functions 
which  are  euphemistically  called  '  public  services '  seemed 
in  his  case  almost  an  interruption  of  the  more  direct  and 
far-reaching  services  which  he  was  intent  upon  rendering  to 
all  civilized  peoples.  .  .  . 

"  As  a  patriot  none  surpassed  him.  Again  it  was  the 
love  of  the  people  that  induced  this  feeling,  which  grew  from 
no  theory  as  to  forms  of  government,  no  abstractions  and 
doctrines  about '  the  rights  of  man.'  .  .  .  During  the  strug 
gle  of  the  States  no  man  was  more  hearty  in  the  cause  than 
Franklin ;  and  the  depth  of  feeling  shown  in  his  letters, 
simple  and  unrhetorical  as  they  are,  is  impressive.  All  that 
he  had  he  gave.  What  also  strikes  the  reader  of  his  writ 
ings  is  the  broad  national  spirit  which  he  manifested.  He 
had  an  immense  respect  for  the  dignity  of  America ;  he  was 
perhaps  fortunately  saved  from  disillusionment  by  his  dis 
tance  from  home.  But  be  this  as  it  may,  the  way  in  which 
he  felt  and  therefore  genuinely  talked  about  his  nation  and 
his  country  was  not  without  its  moral  effect  in  Europe. 

"  Intellectually  there  are  few  men  who  are  Franklin's  peers 
in  all  the  ages  and  nations.  He  covered,  and  covered  well, 
vast  ground.  The  reputation  of  doing  and  knowing  various 
unrelated  things  is  wont  to  bring  suspicion  of  perfunctori- 
ness;  but  the  ideal  of  the  human  intellect  is  an  under 
standing  to  which  all  knowledge  and  all  activity  are  ger 
mane.  There  have  been  a  few,  very  few  minds  which  have 
approximated  toward  this  ideal,  and  among  them  Franklin's 
is  prominent.  He  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished  scien 
tists  who  have  ever  lived.  Bancroft  calls  him  '  the  greatest 
diplomatist  of  his  century.' l  His  ingenious  and  useful  de 
vices  and  inventions  were  very  numerous.  He  possessed  t 
masterly  shrewdness  in  business  and  practical  affairs.  He 
was  a  profound  thinker  and  preacher  in  morals  and  on  the 

1  Bancroft,  History  of  the  United  States,  ix.  134. 


44  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

conduct  of  life  ;  so  that  with  the  exception  of  the  founders 
of  great  religions  it  would  be  difficult  to  name  any  persona 
who  have  more  extensively  influenced  the  ideas,  motives, 
and  habits  of  life  of  men.  He  was  one  of  the  most,  perhaps 
the  most  agreeable  conversationist  of  his  age.  He  was  a 
rare  wit  and  humorist,  and  in  an  age  when  'American 
humor '  was  still  unborn,  amid  contemporaries  who  have 
left  no  trace  of  a  jest,  still  less  of  the  faintest  appreciation 
of  humor,  all  which  he  said  and  wrote  was  brilliant  with 
both  the  most  charming  qualities  of  the  human  mind.  .  .  . 
He  was  a  man  who  impressed  his  ability  upon  all  who  met 
him ;  so  that  the  abler  the  man  and  the  more  experienced 
in  judging  men,  the  higher  did  he  rate  Franklin  when 
brought  into  direct  contact  with  him  ;  politicians  and  states 
men  of  Europe,  distrustful  and  sagacious,  trained  readers 
and  valuers  of  men,  gave  him  the  rare  honor  of  placing  con 
fidence  not  only  in  his  personal  sincerity,  but  in  his  broad 
fairmindedness,  a  mental  quite  as  much  as  a  moral  trait. 

"  It  is  hard  indeed  to  give  full  expression  to  a  man  of  such 
scope  in  morals,  in  mind,  and  in  affairs.  He  illustrates 
humanity  in  an  astonishing  multiplicity  of  ways  at  an  infi 
nite  number  of  points.  He,  more  than  any  other,  seems  to 
show  us  how  many-sided  our  human  nature  is.  No  individ 
ual,  of  course,  fills  the  entire  circle ;  but  if  we  can  imagine 
a  circumference  which  shall  express  humanity,  we  can  place 
within  it  no  one  man  who  will  reach  out  to  approach  it  and 
to  touch  it  at  so  many  points  as  will  Franklin.  A  man  of 
active  as  well  as  universal  good  will,  of  perfect  trustfulness 
towards  all  dwellers  on  the  earth,  of  supreme  wisdom 
expanding  over  all  the  interests  of  the  race,  none  has  earned 
a  more  kindly  loyalty.  By  the  instruction  which  he  gave, 
by  his  discoveries,  by  his  inventions,  and  by  his  achieve 
ments  in  public  life  he  earns  the  distinction  of  having  ren 
dered  to  men  varied  and  useful  services  excelled  by  no  other 
one  man ;  and  thus  he  has  established  a  claim  upon  the 
gratitude  of  mankind  so  broad  that  history  holds  few  who 
can  be  his  rivals." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  46 


CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF  THE  PRINCIPAL  EVENTS  IN 
THE  LIFE  OF  FRANKLIN. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts   .         .        •        .        January  17,  1706 

Is  apprenticed  to  his  brother,  a  printer  .....  1713 

Begins  to  write  for  the  "  New  England  Courant  "               .         .  1719 

Runs  away  to  New  York,  and  finally  to  Philadelphia    .         .  1723 
Goes  to  England   and  works  at  his  trade  as  a  journeyman 

printer  in  London  ........  1725 

Returns  to  Philadelphia 1726 

Marries       ....        1 1730 

Establishes  the  "  Philadelphia  Gazette  "  ....  1730 
First  publishes  "  Poor  Richard's  Almanac "  .  .  .  .  1732 
Is  appointed  Postmaster  of  Philadelphia  '••'•>•  .  .  1737 
Establishes  the  Philadelphia  Public  Library  ....  1742 
Establishes  the  American  Philosophical  Society  and  the  Uni 
versity  of  Philadelphia  .  .  :  ....<*»  1744 
Carries  on  the  investigations  by  which  he  proves  the  identity 

of  lightning  with  electricity    ...*...         .        .         1746-52 

Assists  in  founding  a  hospital 1751 

Is  appointed  Postmaster-General  for  the  Colonies      .        .         .  1753 
Is  sent  by  the  Assembly  of  the  Province  of  Pennsylvania  as  an 

emissary  to  England  in  behalf  of  the  colonists     .         .  1757 
Receives  the  degree  of  LL.  D.  from  St.  Andrews,  Oxford,  and 

Edinburgh 1764 

Procures  a  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act       .        .        .         .  1766 
Is  elected  F.  R.  S.,  and  receives  the  Copley  Gold  Medal  for  his 

papers  on  the  nature  of  lightning 1775 

Is  elected  to  the  Continental  Congress 1775 

Signs  the  Declaration  of  Independence  (having  been  one  of  the 

committee  to  draft  it) 1776 

Is  employed  in  the   diplomatic  service  of  the  United  States, 

chiefly  at  Paris 1776-85 

Is  President  of  the  Pennsylvania  Supreme  Council     .         .       1785-88 
Is  a  delegate  to  the  convention  to  draw  up  the  United  States 

Constitution     '•>•«•       • 1787 

Die*  at  Philadelphia April  17, 1790 


POOR  RICHARD'S   ALMANAC. 

[Ilf  Franklin's  lifetime  the  almanac  was  the  most  popular 
form  of  literature  in  America.  A  few  people  read  newspapers, 
but  every  farmer  who  could  read  at  all  had  an  almanac  hanging 
by  the  fireplace.  Besides  the  monthly  calendar  and  movements 
of  the  heavenly  bodies,  the  almanac  contained  anecdotes,  scraps 
of  useful  information,  and  odds  and  ends  of  literature.  Franklin 
began  the  publication  of  such  an  almanac  in  1732,  pretending 
that  it  was  written  by  one  Richard  Saunders.  It  was  pub 
lished  annually  for  twenty-five  years.  "  I  endeavored,"  says 
Franklin,  "  to  make  it  both  entertaining  and  useful ;  and  it  ac 
cordingly  came  to  be  in  such  demand,  that  I  reaped  considerable 
profit  from  it,  vending  annually  near  ten  thousand.  And  observ 
ing  that  it  was  generally  read,  scarce  any  neighborhood  in  the 
province  being  without  it,  I  considered  it  as  a  proper  vehicle 
for  conveying  instruction  among  the  common  people,  who 
bought  scarcely  any  other  books  ;  I  therefore  filled  all  the  little 
spaces  that  occurred  between  the  remarkable  days  in  the  calendar 
with  proverbial  sentences,  chiefly  such  as  inculcated  industry  and 
frugality  as  the  means  of  procuring  wealth,  and  thereby  securing 
virtue  ;  it  being  more  difficult  for  a  man  in  want  to  act  always 
honestly,  as,  to  use  here  one  of  those  proverbs,  '  it  is  hard  for 
an  empty  sack  to  stand  upright.' "  In  the  almanac  Franklin  in 
troduced  his  proverbs  by  the  phrase  Poor  Richard  says,  as  if  he 
were  quoting  from  Richard  Saunders,  and  so  the  almanac  came 
to  be  called  Poor  Richard's  Almanac. 

"  These  proverbs,"  he  continues,  "  which  contain  the  wisdom 
of  many  ages  and  nations,  I  assembled  and  formed  into  a  con 
nected  discourse,  prefixed  to  the  almanac  of  1757,  as  the  harangue 
of  a  wise  old  man  to  the  people  attending  an  auction.  The 
bringing  all  these  scattered  counsels  thus  into  a  focus  enabled 
them  to  make  greater  impression.  The  piece,  being  universally 
approved,  was  copied  in  all  the  newspapers  of  the  continent 
[that  is,  the  American  continent]  ;  reprinted  in  Britain  on  a 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  41 

broadside,  to  be  stuck  up  in  houses  ;  two  translations  were  made 
of  it  in  French,  and  great  numbers  bought  by  the  clergy  and 
gentry,  to  distribute  gratis  among  their  poor  parishioners  and 
tenants.  In  Pennsylvania,  as  it  discouraged  useless  expense  in 
foreign  superfluities,  some  thought  it  had  its  share  of  influence 
in  producing  that  growing  plenty  of  money  which  was  observable 
for  several  years  after  its  publication." 

Franklin's  example  was  followed  by  other  writers,  —  Noah 
Webster,  the  maker  of  dictionaries,  among  them  ;  and  one  can 
see  in  the  popular  almanacs  of  to-day,  such  as  The  Old  Farmer's 
Almanac,  the  effect  of  Franklin's  style.  When  the  king  of  France 
gave  Captain  John  Paul  Jones  a  ship  with  which  to  make  attacks 
upon  British  merchantmen  in  the  war  for  independence,  it  was 
named,  out  of  compliment  to  Franklin,  the  Bon  Homme  Richard, 
which  might  be  translated  Clever  Richard.  The  pages  which 
follow  are  the  connected  discourse  prefixed  to  the  almanac  of 
1757.]  

COURTEOUS  READER  :  — 

I  have  heard  that  nothing  gives  an  author  so  great 
pleasure  as  to  find  his  works  respectfully  quoted  by 
other  learned  authors.  This  pleasure  I  have  seldom 
enjoyed.  For  though  I  have  been,  if  I  may  say  it 
without  vanity,  an  eminent  author  of  Almanacs  annu 
ally,  now  for  a  full  quarter  of  a  century,  my  brother 
authors  in  the  same  way,  for  what  reason  I  know  not, 
have  ever  been  very  sparing  in  their  applauses ;  and 
no  other  author  has  taken  the  least  notice  of  me ;  so 
that  did  not  my  writings  produce  me  some  solid  pud 
ding,  the  great  deficiency  of  praise  would  have  quite 
discouraged  me. 

I  concluded  at  length,  that  the  people  were  the  best 
judges  of  my  merit ;  for  they  buy  my  works ;  and 
besides,  in  my  rambles,  where  I  am  not  personally 
known,  I  have  frequently  heard  one  or  other  of  my 
adages  repeated,  with  as  Poor  Richard  says  at  the 
end  of  it.  This  gave  me  some  satisfaction,  as  it 


48  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

showed,  not  only  that  my  instructions  were  regarded, 
but  discovered  likewise  some  respect  for  my  authority ; 
and  I  own,  that  to  encourage  the  practice  of  remem 
bering  and  repeating  those  sentences,  I  have  some 
times  quoted  myself  with  great  gravity. 

Judge,  then,  how  much  I  must  have  been  gratified 
by  an  incident  I  am  going  to  relate  to  you.  I  stopped 
my  horse  lately  where  a  great  number  of  people  were 
collected  at  a  vendue  of  merchant's  goods.  The  hour 
of  sale  not  being  come,  they  were  conversing  on  the 
badness  of  the  times ;  and  one  of  the  company  called 
to  a  plain,  clean  old  man  with  white  locks,  "  Pray, 
Father  Abraham,  what  think  you  of  the  times  ?  Won't 
these  heavy  taxes  quite  ruin  the  country?  How  shall 
we  ever  be  able  to  pay  them?  What  would  you  advise 
us  to?"  Father  Abraham  stood  up  and  replied :  "  If 
you  would  have  my  advice,  I  will  give  it  you  in  short ; 
for  A  word  to  the  wise  is  enough,  and  Many  words 
won't  Jill  a  bushel,  as  Poor  Richard  says."  They  all 
joined,  desiring  him  to  speak  his  mind,  and  gathering 
round  him,  he  proceeded  as  follows :  — 

Friends,  says  he,  and  neighbors,  the  taxes  are  in 
deed  very  heavy,  and  if  those  laid  on  by  the  govern 
ment  were  the  only  ones  we  had  to  pay,  we  might  the 
more  easily  discharge  them ;  but  we  have  many  others, 
and  much  more  grievous  to  some  of  us.  We  are  taxed 
twice  as  much  by  our  IDLENESS,  three  times  as  much 
by  our  PRIDE,  and  four  times  as  much  by  our  FOLLY; 
and  from  these  taxes  the  commissioners  cannot  ease 
or  deliver  us,  by  allowing  an  abatement.  However,  let 
us  hearken  to  good  advice,  and  something  may  be  done 
for  us;  God  helps  them  that  helps  themselves,  as  Poor 
Richard  says  in  his  Almanac  of  1733. 

It  would  be  thought  a  hard  government  that  should 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  49 

tax  its  people  one  tenth  part  of  their  TIME,  to  be  em 
ployed  in  its  service,  but  idleness  taxes  many  of  ua 
much  more,  if  we  reckon  all  that  is  spent  in  absolute 
sloth,  or  doing  of  nothing ;  with  that  which  is  spent 
in  idle  employments  or  amusements  that  amount  to 
nothing.  Sloth,  by  bringing  on  diseases,  absolutely 
shortens  life.  Sloth,  like  rust,  consumes  faster  than 
labor  wears  ;  while  the  used  key  is  always  bright,  as 
Poor  Richard  says.  But  dost  thou  love  life  ?  then  do 
not  squander  time,  for  that 's  the  stuff  life  is  made  of, 
as  Poor  Richard  says. 

How  much  more  that  is  necessary  do  we  spend  in 
sleep?  forgetting,  that  the  sleeping  fox  catcjies  no 
poultry,  and  that  there  will  be  sleeping  enough  in  the 
grave,  as  Poor  Richard  says.  If  time  be  of  all  things 
the  most  precious,  wasting  of  time  must  be,  as  Poor 
Richard  says,  the  greatest  prodigality;  since,  as  he 
elsewhere  tells  us,  lost  time  is  never  found  again  ;  and 
what  we  call  time  enough  !  always  proves  little  enough. 
Let  us  then  up  and  be  doing,  and  doing  to  the  purpose ; 
so,  by  diligence,  shall  we  do  more  with  less  perplexity. 
Sloth  makes  all  things  difficult,  but  industry  all 
things  easy,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and  He  that  riseth 
late  must  trot  all  day,  and  shall  scarce  overtake  his 
business  at  night;  while  laziness  travels  so  slowly 
that  Poverty  soon  overtakes  him,  as  we  read  in  Poor 
Richard ;  who  adds,  Drive  thy  business  f  let  not  that 
drive  thee  1  and  — 

Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise 

Makes  a  man  healthy,  wealthy  and  wise. 

So  what  signifies  wishing  and  hoping  for  better 
times  ?  We  may  make  these  times  better,  if  we  bestir 
ourselves.  Industry  need  not  wish,  as  Poor  Richard 
says,  and  He  that  lives  on  hope  will  die  fasting. 


60  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

There  are  no  gains  without  pains  ;  then  help,  hands! 
for  I  have  no  lands  ;  or,  if  I  have,  they  are  smartly 
taxed.  And,  as  Poor  Richard  likewise  observes,  He 
that  hath  a  trade  hath  an  estate,  and  he  that  hath  a 
calling  hath  an  office  of  profit  and  honor  ;  but  then 
the  trade  must  be  worked  at,  and  the  calling  well  fol 
lowed,  or  neither  the  estate  nor  the  office  will  enable 
us  to  pay  our  taxes.  If  we  are  industrious  we  shall 
never  starve ;  for,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  At  the  work 
ing-man 's  house  hunger  looks  in,  but  dares  not  enter. 
Nor  will  the  bailiff  or  the  constable  enter,  for  Industry 
pays  debts,  while  despair  increaseth  them. 

What  though  you  have  found  no  treasure,  nor  has 
any  rich  relation  left  you  a  legacy,  Diligence  is  the 
mother  of  good  luck,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  and  God 
gives  all  things  to  industry. 

Then  plough  deep  while  sluggards  sleep, 
And  you  shall  have  corn  to  sell  and  to  keep, 

says  Poor  Dick.  Work  while  it  is  called  to-day,  for 
you  know  not  how  much  you  may  be  hindered  to 
morrow  ;  which  makes  Poor  Richard  say,  One  to-day 
is  worth  two  to-morrows ;  and  farther,  Save  you 
somewhat  to  do  to-morrow  ?  Do  it  to-day  1 

If  you  were  a  servant,  would  you  not  be  ashamed 
that  a  good  master  should  catch  you  idle  ?  Are  you 
then  your  own  master?  Be  ashamed  to  catch  your 
self  idle,  as  Poor  Dick  says.  When  there  is  so  much 
to  be  done  for  yourself,  your  family,  your  country, 
and  your  gracious  king,  be  up  by  peep  of  day !  Let 
not  the  sun  look  down  and  say,  "  Inglorious  here  he 
lies  !  "  Handle  your  tools  without  mittens  I  remem 
ber  that  The  cat  in  gloves  catches  no  mice  1  as  Poor 
Richard  says. 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  61 

'T  is  true  there  is  much  to  be  done,  and  perhaps 
you  are  weak-handed ;  but  stick  to  it  steadily,  and  you 
will  see  great  effects ;  for  Constant  dropping  wears 
away  stones ;  and  By  diligence  and  patience  the 
mouse  ate  in  two  the  cable  ;  and  Little  strokes  fell 
great  oaks  ;  as  Poor  Richard  says  in  his  Almanac, 
the  year  I  cannot  just  now  remember. 

Methinks  I  hear  some  of  you  say,  "  Must  a  man 
afford  himself  no  leisure?"  I  will  tell  thee,  my 
friend,  what  Poor  Richard  says,  JEmploy  thy  time 
well,  if  thou  meanest  to  gain  leisure  ;  and  Since  thou 
art  not  sure  of  a  minute,  throw  not  away  an  hour  I 
Leisure  is  time  for  doing  something  useful ;  this  lei 
sure  the  diligent  man  will  obtain,  but  the  lazy  man 
never  ;  so  that,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  A  life  of  leisure 
and  a  life  of  laziness  are  two  things.  Do  you  im 
agine  that  sloth  will  afford  you  more  comfort  than 
labor?  No!  for,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  Trouble 
springs  from  idleness,  and  grievous  toil  from  needless 
ease.  Many,  without  labor,  would  live  by  their  wits 
only,  but  they  *ll  break  for  want  of  stock  [i.  e.  capi 
tal]  ;  whereas  industry  gives  comfort,  and  plenty,  and 
respect.  Fly  pleasures,  and  they  'II  follow  you.  The 
diligent  spinner  has  a  large  shift ;  and  — 

Now  I  have  a  sheep  and  a  cow, 
Everybody  bids  me  good  morrow. 

All  which  is  well  said  by  Poor  Richard.  But  with 
our  industry  we  must  likewise  be  steady,  settled,  and 
careful,  and  oversee  our  own  affairs  with  our  own 
eyes,  and  not  trust  too  much  to  others ;  for,  as  Poor 
Richard  says,  — 

/  never  saw  an  oft-removed  tree 

Nor  yet  an  oft-removed  family 

That  throve  so  well  as  those  that  settled  be. 


62  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

And  again,  Three  removes  are  as  bad  as  a  fire ; 
and  again,  Keep  thy  shop,  and  thy  shop  will  keep 
thee  ;  and  again,  If  you  would  have  your  business 
done,  go;  if  not,  send.  And  again, — 

He  that  by  the  plough  would  thrive, 

Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive. 

And  again,  The  eye  of  the  master  will  do  more 
work  than  both  his  hands  ;  and  again,  Want  of  care 
does  us  more  damage  than  want  of  knowledge  ;  and 
again,  Not  to  oversee  workmen  is  to  leave  them  your 
purse  open. 

Trusting  too  much  to  others'  care  is  the  ruin  of 
many ;  for,  as  the  Almanac  says,  In  the  affairs  of 
this  world  men  are  saved,  not  by  faith,  but  by  the 
want  of  it ;  but  a  man's  own  care  is  profitable  ;  for 
saith  Poor  Dick,  Learning  is  to  the  studious,  and 
Riches  to  the  careful ;  as  well  as,  Power  to  the  bold, 
and  Heaven  to  the  virtuous.  And  further,  If  you 
would  have  a  faithful  servant,  and  one  that  you  like, 
serve  yourself. 

And  again,  he  adviseth  to  circumspection  and  care, 
even  in  the  smallest  matters ;  because  sometimes,  A 
little  neglect  may  breed  great  mischief ;  adding,  for 
want  of  a  nail  the  shoe  was  lost ;  for  want  of  a  shoe 
the  horse  was  lost ;  and  for  want  of  a  horse  the  rider 
was  lost ;  being  overtaken  and  slain  by  the  enemy; 
all  for  want  of  a  little  care  about  a  horse-shoe  nail ! 

So  much  for  industry,  my  friends,  and  attention  to 
one's  own  business  ;  but  to  these  we  must  add  frugal 
ity,  if  we  would  make  our  industry  more  certainly  suc 
cessful.  A  man  may,  if  he  knows  not  how  to  save  as 
he  gets,  keep  his  nose  all  his  life  to  the  grindstone. 
and  die  not  worth  a  groat  at  last.  A  fat  kitchen 
makes  a  lean  will,  as  Poor  Richard  says  ;  and  — 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  58 

Many  estates  are  spent  in  the  getting, 

Since  women  for  tea 1  forsook  spinning  and  knitting, 

And  men  for  punch  forsook  hewing  and  splitting. 

If  you  would  be  wealthy,  says  he  in  another  Al 
manac,  Think  of  saving  as  well  as  of  getting.  The 
Indies  have  not  made  Spain  rich ;  because  her  out 
goes  are  greater  than  her  incomes. 

Away,  then,  with  your  expensive  follies,  and  you 
will  not  have  so  much  cause  to  complain  of  hard 
times,  heavy  taxes,  and  chargeable  families;  for,  as 
Poor  Dick  says,  — 

Women  and  wine,  game  and  deceit, 
Make  the  wealth  small  and  the  wants  great. 

And  farther,  What  maintains  one  vice  would  bring 
up  two  children.  You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  a 
little  tea,  or  a  little  punch  now  and  then ;  a  diet  a 
little  more  costly ;  clothes  a  little  more  finer ;  and 
a  little  more  entertainment  now  and  then,  can  be  no 
great  matter  ;  but  remember  what  Poor  Richard  says, 
Many  a  little  makes  a  mickle  ;  and  further,  Beware 
of  little  expenses;  A  small  leak  will  sink  a  great 
ship  ;  and  again,  — 

Who  dainties  love,  shall  beggars  prove  ; 

and  moreover,  Fools  make  feasts,  and  wise  men  eat 
them. 

Here  are  you  all  got  together  at  this  vendue  of 
fineries  and  knick-knacks.  You  call  them  goods ; 
but  if  you  do  not  take  care,  they  will  prove  evils  to 
some  of  you.  You  expect  they  will  be  sold  cheap, 
and  perhaps  they  may  for  less  than  they  cost ;  but,  if 
you  have  no  occasion  for  them,  they  must  be  dear  to 

1  Tea  at  this  time  was  a  costly  drink,  and  was  regarded  as  a 
luxury. 


54  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

you.  Remember  what  Poor  Richard  says :  Buy  what 
thou  hast  no  need  of,  and  ere  long  thou  shalt  sell  thy 
necessaries.  And  again,  At  a  great  pennyworth  pause 
a  while.  He  means,  that  perhaps  the  cheapness  is 
apparent  only,  and  not  real ;  or  the  bargain  by  strait 
ening  thee  in  thy  business,  may  do  thee  more  harm, 
than  good.  For  in  another  place  he  says,  Many  have 
been  ruined  by  buying  good  pennyworths. 

Again,  Poor  Richard  says,  'T is  foolish  to  lay  out 
money  in  a  purchase  of  repentance;  and  yet  this 
folly  is  practised  every  day  at  vendues  for  want  of 
minding  the  Almanac. 

Wise  men,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  learn  by  others' 
harms;  Fools  scarcely  by  their  own;  but  Felix 
quern  faciunt  aliena  pericula  cautum.1  Many  a  one, 
for  the  sake  of  finery  on  the  back,  has  gone  with  a 
hungry  belly,  and  half -starved  their  families.  Silks 
and  satins,  scarlets  and  velvets,  as  Poor  Richard 
says,  put  out  the  kitchen  fire.  These  are  not  the  ne 
cessaries  of  life ;  they  can  scarcely  be  called  the  con 
veniences  ;  and  yet,  only  because  they  look  pretty,  how 
many  want  to  have  them!  The  artificial  wants  of 
mankind  thus  become  more  numerous  than  the  nat 
ural  ;  and,  as  Poor  Dick  says,  For  one  poor  person 
there  are  a  hundred  indigent. 

By  these,  and  other  extravagances,  the  genteel  are 
reduced  to  poverty,  and  forced  to  borrow  of  those 
whom  they  formerly  despised,  but  who,  through  in 
dustry  and  frugality,  have  maintained  their  standing ; 
in  which  case  it  appears  plainly,  that  A  ploughman 
on  his  legs  is  higher  than  a  gentleman  on  his  knees, 
as  Poor  Richard  says.  Perhaps  they  have  had  a 

1  He  's  a  lucky  fellow  who  is  made  prudent  by  other  men's 
perils. 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  55 

small  estate  left  them,  which  they  knew  not  the  get 
ting  of;  they  think,  'Tis  day,  and  will  never  be 
night ;  that  a  little  to  be  spent  out  of  so  much  is  not 
worth  minding  ;  (A  child  and  a  fool,  as  Poor  Rich 
ard  says,  imagine  twenty  shillings  and  twenty  yeart 
can  never  be  spent,)  but  Always  taking  out  of  the 
meal-tub,  and  never  putting  in,  soon  iomes  to  the 
bottom.  Then,  as  Poor  Dick  says,  When  the  well 's 
dry,  they  know  the  worth  of  water.  But  this  they 
might  have  known  before,  if  they  had  taken  his  ad 
vice.  If  you  would  know  the  value  of  money,  go 
and  try  to  borrow  some  ;  for  He  that  goes  a  borrow 
ing,  goes  a  sorrowing,  and  indeed  so  does  he  that 
lends  to  such  people,  when  he  goes  to  get  it  in  again. 
Poor  Dick  further  advises,  and  says  — 

Fond  pride  of  dress  is,  sure  a  very  curse  ; 
Ere  fancy  you  consult,  consult  your  purse. 

And  again,  Pride  is  as  loud  a  beggar  as  Want,  and 
a  great  deal  more  saucy.  When  you  have  bought 
one  fine  thing,  you  must  buy  ten  more,  that  your  ap 
pearance  may  be  all  of  a  piece  ;  but  Poor  Dick  says, 
'  T  is  easier  to  suppress  thejlrst  desire,  than  to  sat 
isfy  all  that  follow  it.  And  't  is  as  truly  folly  for 
the  poor  to  ape  the  rich,  as  for  the  frog  to  swell  in 
order  to  equal  the  ox. 

Great  estates  may  venture  more, 

But  little  boats  should  keep  near  shore. 

'Tis,  however,  a  folly  soon  punished;  for,  Pride 
that  dines  on  vanity  sups  on  contempt,  as  Poor  Rich 
ard  says.  And  in  another  place,  Pride  breakfasted 
with  Plenty,  dined  with  Poverty,  and  supped  with 
Infamy. 

And  after  all,  of  what  use  is  this  pride  of  appear- 


56  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN- 

ance,  for  which  so  much  is  risked,  so  much  is  suffered  ? 
It  cannot  promote  health  or  ease  pain ;  it  makes  no 
increase  of  merit  in  the  person ;  it  creates  envy ;  it 
hastens  misfortune. 

What  is  a  butterfly  f    At  best 
He 's  but  a  caterpillar  drest, 
The  gaudy  fop 's  his  picture  just, 

as  Poor  Richard  says. 

But  what  madness  must  it  be  to  run  into  debt  for 
these  superfluities !  We  are  offered,  by  the  terms  of 
this  vendue,  six  months'  credit ;  and  that,  perhaps, 
has  induced  some  of  us  to  attend  it,  because  we  cannot 
spare  the  ready  money,  and  hope  now  to  be  fine  with 
out  it.  But,  ah  !  think  what  you  do  when  you  run  in 
debt :  You  give  to  another  power  over  your  liberty. 
If  you  cannot  pay  at  the  time,  you  will  be  ashamed  to 
see  your  creditor ;  you  will  be  in  fear  when  you  speak 
to  him ;  you  will  make  poor,  pitiful,  sneaking  excuses, 
and  by  degrees  come  to  lose  your  veracity,  and  sink 
into  base,  downright  lying ;  for,  as  Poor  Richard  says, 
The  second  vice  is  lying,  the  first  is  running  into 
debt;  and  again,  to  the  same  purpose,  lying  rides 
upon  debtfs  back ;  whereas  a  free-born  Englishman 
ought  not  to  be  ashamed  or  afraid  to  see  or  speak  to 
any  man  living.  But  poverty  often  deprives  a  man  of 
all  spirit  and  virtue.  'Tis  hard  for  an  empty  bag  to 
stand  upright  I  as  Poor  Richard  truly  says.  What 
would  you  think  of  that  prince,  or  the  government, 
who  should  issue  an  edict  forbidding  you  to  dress  like 
a  gentleman  or  gentlewoman,  on  pain  of  imprisonment 
or  servitude  ?  Would  you  not  say  that  you  are  free, 
have  a  right  to  dress  as  you  please,  and  that  such  an 
edict  would  be  a  breach  of  your  privileges,  and  such  a 
government  tyrannical?  And  yet  you  are  about  to 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  57 

put  yourself  under  such  tyranny,  when  you  run  in 
debt  for  such  dress  !  Your  creditor  has  authority,  at 
his  pleasure,  to  deprive  you  of  your  liberty,  by  con 
fining  you  in  jail  for  life,  or  to  sell  you  for  a  servant, 
if  you  should  not  be  able  to  pay  him.1  When  you 
have  got  your  bargain,  you  may,  perhaps,  think  little 
of  payment ;  but  Creditors  (Poor  Richard  tells  us) 
have  better  memories  than  debtors;  and  in  another 
place  says,  Creditors  are  a  superstitious  set,  great  ob 
servers  of  set  days  and  times.  The  day  comes  round 
before  you  are  aware,  and  the  demand  is  made  before 
you  are  prepared  to  satisfy  it ;  or,  if  you  bear  your 
debt  in  mind,  the  term  which  at  first  seemed  so  long, 
will,  as  it  lessens,  appear  extremely  short.  Time  will 
seem  to  have  added  wings  to  his  heels  as  well  as  his 
shoulders.  Those  have  a  short  Lent,  saith  Poor 
Richard,  who  owe  money  to  be  paid  at  Easter.  Then 
since,  as  he  says,  The  borrower  is  a  slave  to  the 
lender,  and  the  debtor  to  the  creditor,  disdain  the 
chain,  preserve  your  freedom,  and  maintain  your  in 
dependency.  Be  industrious  and  free ;  be  frugal 
and  free.  At  present,  perhaps,  you  may  think  your 
self  in  thriving  circumstances,  and  that  you  can  bear 
a  little  extravagance  without  injury ;  but  — 

For  age  and  want,  save  while  you  may, 
No  morning  sun  lasts  a  whole  day. 

As  Poor  Richard  says,  gain  may  be  temporary  and 
uncertain  ;  but  ever,  while  you  live,  expense  is  con 
stant  and  certain  ;  and  '  Tis  easier  to  build  two  chim 
neys  than  to  keep  one  in  fuel,  as  Poor  Richard  says ; 
so,  leather  go  to  bed  supperless  than  rise  in  debt. 

1  At  the  time  when  this  was  written,  and  for  many  years  af 
terward,  the  laws  against  bankrupts  and  poor  debtors  were  ex 
tremely  severe. 


58  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

Get  what  you  can  and  what  you  get  hold; 

'  T  is  the  stone  that  will  turn  all  your  lead  into  gold,1 

as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and,  when  you  have  got  the 
Philosopher's  stone,  sure,  you  will  no  longer  complain 
of  bad  times  or  the  difficulty  of  paying  taxes. 

This  doctrine,  my  friends,  is  reason  and  wisdom ; 
but,  after  all,  do  not  depend  too  much  upon  your  own 
industry  and  frugality  and  prudence,  though  excel 
lent  things  ;  for  they  may  all  be  blasted  without  the 
blessing  of  Heaven  ;  and  therefore,  ask  that  blessing 
humbly,  and  be  not  uncharitable  to  those  that  at  pres 
ent  seem  to  want  it,  but  comfort  and  help  them.  Re 
member  Job  suffered,  and  was  afterwards  prosperous. 

And  now,  to  conclude,  Experience  keeps  a  dear 
school,  but  fools  will  learn  in  no  other,  and  scarce  in 
that ;  for  it  is  true,  We  may  give  advice,  but  we  can 
not  give  conduct,  as  poor  Richard  says.  However, 
remember  this,  They  that  won't  be  counselled,  can't 
be  helped,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and  further,  that,  If 
you  will  not  hear  reason,  she  'II  surely  rap  your 
knuckles. 

Thus  the  old  gentleman  ended  his  harangue.  The 
people  heard  it,  and  approved  the  doctrine ;  and  im 
mediately  practised  the  contrary,  just  as  if  it  had  been 
a  common  sermon.  For  the  vendue  opened,  and  they 
began  to  buy  extravagantly,  notwithstanding  all  his 
cautions,  and  their  own  fear  of  taxes.  I  found  the 
good  man  had  thoroughly  studied  my  Almanacs,  and 
digested  all  I  had  dropped  on  those  topics  during  the 
course  of  five-and-twenty  years.  The  frequent  men- 

1  In  the  Middle  Ages  there  was  a  great  search  made  for  the 
philosopher's  stone,  as  it  was  called,  a  mineral  which  should 
have  the  power  of  turning  base  metals  into  gold. 


POOR  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC.  59 

tion  he  made  of  me  must  have  tired  any  one  else ;  but 
my  vanity  was  wonderfully  delighted  with  it,  though 
I  was  conscious  that  not  a  tenth  part  of  the  wisdom 
was  my  own  which  he  ascribed  to  me,  but  rather  the 
gleanings  that  I  had  made  of  the  sense  of  all  ages  and 
nations.  However,  I  resolved  to  be  the  better  for  the 
echo  of  it ;  and,  though  I  had  at  first  determined  to 
buy  stuff  for  a  new  coat,  I  went  away  resolved  to 
wear  my  old  one  a  little  longer.  Reader,  if  thou  wilt 
do  the  same,  thy  profit  will  be  as  great  as  mine.  I 
am,  as  ever,  thine  to  serve  thee, 

RICHABD  SAUNDEBS. 
July  7, 1757. 


FKOM  "  POOB  RICHARD'S  ALMANAC,"  1756. 

PLAN  FOR  SAVING  ONE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND 
POUNDS. 

As  I  spent  some  weeks  last  winter  in  visiting  my 
old  acquaintance  in  the  Jerseys,  great  complaints  I 
heard  for  want  of  money,  and  that  leave  to  make 
more  paper  bills  could  not  be  obtained.  Friends  and 
countrymen,  my  advice  on  this  head  shall  cost  you 
nothing ;  and,  if  you  will  not  be  angry  with  me  for 
giving  it,  1  promise  you  not  to  be  offended  if  you  do 
not  take  it. 

You  spend  yearly  at  least  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds,  it  is  said,  in  European,  East-Indian,  and 
West-Indian  commodities.  Suppose  one  half  of  thip 
expense  to  be  in  things  absolutely  necessary,  the  othe; 
half  may  be  called  superflidties,  or,  at  best,  conven- 
iencies,  which,  however,  you  might  live  without  for 
one  little  year,  and  not  suffer  exceedingly.  Now,  to 
save  this  half,  observe  these  few  directions  :  — 


60  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

1.  When  you  incline  to  have  new  clothes,  look  first 
well  over  the  old  ones,  and  see  if  you  cannot  shift  with 
them  another  year,  either   by  scouring,  mending,  or 
even  patching  if  necessary.     Remember,  a  patch  on 
your  coat,  and  money  in  your  pocket,  is  better  and 
more  creditable  than  a  writ  on  your  back,  and  no 
money  to  take  it  off. 

2.  When   you  are   inclined  to   buy   China   ware, 
chintzes,  India  silks,  or  any  other  of  their  flimsy,  slight 
manufactures,  I  would  not  be  so  bad  with  you  as  to  in 
sist  on  your  absolutely  resolving  against  it ;  all  I  ad 
vise  is,  to  put  it  off  (as  you  do  your  repentance)  till 
another  year  ;  and  this,  in  some  respects,  may  prevent 
an  occasion  of  repentance. 


TO  SAMUEL  MATHER. 

PASST,  May  12, 1784. 

I  received  your  kind  letter,  with  your  excellent  ad 
vice  to  the  people  of  the  United  States,  which  I  read 
with  great  pleasure,  and  hope  it  will  be  duly  regarded. 
Such  writings,  though  they  may  be  lightly  passed  over 
by  many  readers,  yet,  if  they  make  a  deep  impression 
on  one  active  mind  in  a  hundred,  the  effects  may  be 
considerable.  Permit  me  to  mention  one  little  in 
stance,  which,  though  it  relates  to  myself,  will  not  be 
quite  uninteresting  to  you.  When  I  was  a  boy,  I  met 
with  a  book  entitled,  "  Essays  to  do  Good,"  which  I 
think  was  written  by  your  father.1  It  had  been  so 
little  regarded  by  a  former  possessor,  that  several 
leaves  of  it  were  torn  out ;  but  the  remainder  gave  me 
such  a  turn  of  thinking,  as  to  have  an  influence  on  my 
conduct  through  life,  for  I  have  always  set  a  greater 
J  Cotton  Mather.  —  ED. 


FAMILIAR  LETTERS.  61 

value  on  the  character  of  a  doer  of  good  than  on  any 
other  kind  of  reputation  ;  and  if  I  have  been,  as  you 
seem  to  think,  a  useful  citizen,  the  public  owes  the  ad- 
rantage  of  it  to  that  book. 

You  mention  your  being  in  your  seventy-eighth  year. 
T  am  in  my  seventy-ninth  year  ;  we  are  growing  old  to 
gether.  It  is  now  more  than  sixty  years  since  I  left 
Boston,  but  I  remember  well  both  your  father  and 
grandfather,  having  heard  them  both  in  the  pulpit 
and  seen  them  in  their  houses.  The  last  time  I  saw 
your  father  was  in  the  beginning  of  1724,  when  I 
visited  him  after  my  first  trip  to  Pennsylvania.  He 
received  me  in  his  library,  and  on  my  taking  leave 
showed  me  a  shorter  way  out  of  the  house  through  a 
narrow  passage,  which  was  crossed  by  a  beam  over 
head.  We  were  still  talking  as  I  withdrew,  he  accom 
panying  me  behind,  and  I  turning  partly  towards  him, 
when  he  said  hastily,  "  Stoop,  stoop ! "  I  did  not  un 
derstand  him  till  I  felt  my  head  hit  against  the  beam. 
He  was  a  man  that  never  missed  any  occasion  of  giv 
ing  instruction,  and  upon  this  he  said  to  me,  "  You 
are  young,  and  have  the  world  before  you;  STOOP 
as  you  go  through  it,  and  you  will  miss  many  hard 
thumps."  This  advice,  thus  beat  into  my  head,  has 
frequently  been  of  use  to  me ;  and  I  often  think  of  it 
when  I  see  pride  mortified,  and  misfortunes  brought 
upon  people  by  their  carrying  their  heads  too  high. 

TO  THE  BEV.    DR.   LATHEOP,    BOSTON. 

PHILADELPHIA,  31  May,  1788. 

REVEREND  SIR  :  I  received  your  obliging  favor 
of  the  6th  instant  by  Mr.  Hillard,  with  whose  conver 
sation  I  was  much  pleased,  and  would  have  been  glad 
to  have  had  more  of  it  if  he  would  have  spared  it  to 


62  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

me ;  but  the  short  time  of  his  stay  has  prevented. 
You  need  make  no  apology  for  introducing  any  of 
your  friends  to  me.  I  consider  it  as  doing  me  honor, 
as  well  as  giving  me  pleasure.  I  thank  you  for  the 
pamphlet  of  the  Humane  Society.  In  return,  please 
to  accept  one  of  the  same  kind,  which  was  published 
while  I  resided  in  France.  If  your  Society  have  not 
hitherto  seen  it,  it  may  possibly  afford  them  useful 
hints. 

It  would  certainly,  as  you  observe,  be  a  very  great 
pleasure  to  me  if  I  could  once  again  visit  my  native 
town,  and  walk  over  the  grounds  I  used  to  frequent 
when  a  boy,  and  where  I  enjoyed  many  of  the  inno 
cent  pleasures  of  youth,  which  would  be  so  brought  to 
my  remembrance,  and  where  I  might  find  some  of  my 
old  acquaintance  to  converse  with.  But  when  I  con 
sider  how  well  I  am  situated  here,  with  everything 
about  me  that  I  can  call  either  necessary  or  conven 
ient  ;  the  fatigues  and  bad  accommodations  to  be  met 
with  and  suffered  in  a  land  journey,  and  the  unpleas 
antness  of  sea  voyages  to  one  who,  although  he  has 
crossed  the  Atlantic  eight  times  and  made  many  smaller 
trips,  does  not  recollect  his  having  ever  been  at  sea 
without  taking  a  firm  resolution  never  to  go  to  sea 
again ;  and  that,  if  I  were  arrived  in  Boston,  I  should 
see  but  little  of  it,  as  I  could  neither  bear  walking  nor 
riding  in  a  carriage  over  its  pebbled  streets;  and, 
above  all,  that  I  should  find  very  few  indeed  of  my  old 
friends  living,  it  being  now  sixty-five  years  since  I  left 
it  to  settle  here,  —  all  this  considered,  I  say,  it  seems 
probable,  though  not  certain,  that  I  shall  hardly  again 
visit  that  beloved  place.  But  I  enjoy  the  company 
and  conversation  of  its  inhabitants,  when  any  of  them 
are  so  good  as  to  visit  me ;  for,  besides  their  general 


FAMILIAR  LETTERS.  63 

good  sense,  which  I  value,  the  Boston  manner,  turn  of 
phrase,  and  even  tone  of  voice  and  accent  in  pronun 
ciation,  all  please,  and  seem  to  refresh  and  revive  me. 

I  have  been  long  impressed  with  the  same  sentiments 
you  so  well  express  of  the  growing  felicity  of  man- 
kind,  from  the  improvements  in  philosophy,  morals, 
politics,  and  even  the  conveniences  of  common  living, 
and  the  invention  and  acquisition  of  new  and  useful 
utensils  and  instruments,  so  that  I  have  sometimes 
almost  wished  it  had  been  my  destiny  to  be  born  two 
or  three  centuries  hence ;  for  invention  and  improve 
ment  are  prolific,  and  beget  more  of  their  kind.  The 
present  progress  is  rapid.  Many  of  great  importance, 
now  unthought  of,  will  before  that  period  be  pro 
duced  ;  and  then  I  might  not  only  enjoy  their  advan 
tages,  but  have  my  curiosity  gratified  in  knowing  what 
they  are  to  be.  I  see  a  little  absurdity  in  what  I  have 
just  written  ;  but  it  is  to  a  friend,  who  will  wink  and 
let  it  pass,  while  I  mention  one  reason  more  for  such  a 
wish,  which  is,  that,  if  the  art  of  physic  shall  be  im 
proved  in  proportion  to  other  arts,  we  may  then  be 
able  to  avoid  diseases,  and  live  as  long  as  the  patri 
archs  in  Genesis,  to  which  I  suppose  we  should  have 
little  objection. 

I  am  glad  my  dear  sister  has  so  good  and  kind  a 
neighbor.  I  sometimes  suspect  she  may  be  backward 
in  acquainting  me  with  circumstances  in  which  I  might 
be  more  useful  to  her.  If  any  such  should  occur  to 
your  observation,  your  mentioning  them  to  me  will  be 
a  favor  I  shall  be  thankful  for. 

With  great  esteem,  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  reverend 
sir,  your  most  obedient  and  most  humble  servant, 

B.  FRANKLIN. 


64  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN, 


TO   BENJAMIN   WEBB. 

PASSY,  22  April,  1784. 

I  received  yours  of  the  15th  instant,  and  the  memo 
rial  it  enclosed.  The  account  they  give  of  your  sit 
uation  grieves  me.  I  send  you  herewith  a  bill  for  ten 
louis  d'ors.  I  do  not  pretend  to  give  such  a  sum ;  I 
only  lend  it  to  you.  When  you  shall  return  to  your 
country  with  a  good  character,  you  cannot  fail  of  get 
ting  into  some  business  that  will  in  time  enable  you 
to  pay  all  your  debts.  In  that  case,  when  you  meet 
with  another  honest  man  in  similar  distress,  you  must 
pay  me  by  lending  this  sum  to  him  ;  enjoining  him  to 
discharge  the  debt  by  a  like  operation  when  he  shall 
be  able,  and  shall  meet  with  such  another  opportunity. 
I  hope  it  may  thus  go  through  many  hands  before  it 
meets  with  a  knave  that  will  stop  its  progress.  This 
is  a  trick  of  mine  for  doing  a  deal  of  good  with  a  little 
money.  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  afford  much  in  good 
works,  and  so  am  obliged  to  be  cunning,  and  make 
the  most  of  a  little.  With  best  wishes  for  the  success 
of  your  memorial  and  your  future  prosperity,  I  am, 
dear  sir,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

B.  FBANKLIN. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  was  born  at  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  August  29,  1809.  The  house  in  which  he 
was  born  stood  between  the  sites  now  occupied  by  the  Hem- 
enway  Gymnasium  and  the  Law  School  of  Harvard  Uni 
versity,  and  was  of  historic  interest  as  having  been  the  head 
quarters  of  General  Artemas  Ward,  and  of  the  Committee 
of  Safety  in  the  days  just  before  the  Revolution.  Upon 
the  steps  of  the  house  stood  President  Langdon,  of  Har 
vard  College,  tradition  says,  and  prayed  for  the  men  who, 
halting  there  a  few  moments,  marched  forward  under  Colo 
nel  Prescott's  lead  to  throw  up  intrenchments  on  Bunker 
Hill  on  the  night  of  June  16,  1775.  Dr.  Holmes's  father 
carried  forward  the  traditions  of  the  old  house,  for  he  was 
Rev.  Dr.  Abiel  Holmes,  whose  American  Annals  was  the 
first  careful  record  of  American  history  written  after  the 
Revolution. 

Born  and  bred  in  the  midst  of  historic  associations, 
Holmes  had  from  the  first  a  lively  interest  in  American  his 
tory  and  politics,  and  though  possessed  of  strong  humorous 
gifts  often  turned  his  song  into  patriotic  channels,  while 
the  current  of  his  literary  life  was  distinctly  American. 

He  began  to  write  poetry  when  in  college  at  Cambridge, 
and  some  of  his  best-known  early  pieces,  like  Evening,  by  a 
Tailor,  The  Meeting  of  the  Dryads,  The  Spectre  Pig,  were 
contributed  to  the  Collegian,  an  undergraduate  journal,  while 
he  was  studying  law  the  year  after  his  graduation.  At  the 


66  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

same  time  he  wrote  the  well-known  poem  Old  Ironsides,  a 
protest  against  the  proposed  breaking  up  of  the  frigate  Con 
stitution  ;  the  poem  was  printed  in  the  Boston  Daily  Adver 
tiser,  and  its  indignation  and  fervor  carried  it  through  the 
country,  and  raised  such  a  popular  feeling  that  the  ship  was 
saved  from  an  ignominious  destruction.  Holmes  shortly 
gave  up  the  study  of  law,  went  abroad  to  study  medicine, 
and  returned  to  take  his  degree  at  Harvard  in  1836.  At 
the  same  time  he  delivered  a  poem,  Poetry :  a  Metrical 
Essay,  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard,  and 
ever  afterward  his  profession  of  medicine  and  his  love  of 
literature  received  his  united  care  and  thought.  In  1838 
he  was  appointed  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  at 
Dartmouth  College,  but  remained  there  only  a  year  or  two, 
when  he  returned  to  Boston,  married,  and  practised  medi 
cine.  In  1847  he  was  made  Parkman  Professor  of  Anat 
omy  and  Physiology  in  the  Medical  School  of  Harvard  Col 
lege,  a  position  which  he  retained  until  the  close  of  1882, 
when  he  retired,  to  devote  himself  more  exclusively  to  liter 
ature. 

In  1857,  when  the  Atlantic  Monthly  was  established, 
Professor  Lowell,  who  was  asked  to  be  editor,  consented  on 
condition  that  Dr.  Holmes  should  be  a  regular  contributor. 
Dr.  Holmes  at  that  time  was  known  as  the  author  of  a  num 
ber  of  poems  of  grace,  life,  and  wit,  and  he  had  published 
several  professional  papers  and  books,  but  his  brilliancy  as  a 
talker  gave  him  a  strong  local  reputation,  and  Lowell 
shrewdly  guessed  that  he  would  bring  to  the  new  magazine 
a  singularly  fresh  and  unusual  power.  He  was  right,  for 
The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast- Table,  beginning  in  the 
first  number,  unquestionably  insured  the  Atlantic  its  early 
success.  The  readers  of  the  day  had  forgotten  that  Holmes, 
twenty-five  years  before,  had  begun  a  series  with  the  samd 
title  in  Buckingham's  New  England  Magazine,  a  periodi 
cal  of  short  life,  so  they  did  not  at  first  understand  why  he 
should  begin  his  first  article,  "  I  was  just  going  to  say  when 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  67 

I  was  interrupted."  From  that  time  Dr.  Holmes  was  a 
frequent  contributor  to  the  magazine,  and  in  it  appeared 
•uccessively,  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table,  The  Pro 
fessor  at  the  Breakfast-Table,  The  Professor's  Story  (after 
ward  called  Elsie  Venner),  The  Guardian  Angel,  The  Poet 
ut  the  Breakfast- Table,  The  New  Portfolio  (afterward  called 
A  Mortal  Antipathy),  Our  Hundred  Days  in  Europe,  and 
Over  the  Teacups,  —  prose  papers  and  stories  with  occa 
sional  insertion  of  verse ;  here  also  were  first  printed  the 
many  poems  which  he  wrote  so  freely  and  so  happily  for 
festivals  and  pubh'c  occasions,  including  the  frequent  poems 
at  the  yearly  meetings  of  his  college  class.  The  wit  and 
humor  which  have  made  his  poetry  so  well  known  would 
never  have  given  him  his  high  rank  had  they  not  been  asso 
ciated  with  an  admirable  art  which  makes  every  word  ne 
cessary  and  felicitous,  and  a  generous  nature  which  is  quick 
to  seize  upon  what  touches  a  common  life. 

Dr.  Holmes  died  at  his  home  in  Boston  October  7,  1894. 
His  life  has  been  written  by  his  wife's  nephew,  John  T. 
Morse,  Jr.,  and  is  published  under  the  title  Life  a*id  Letters 
of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL 
BATTLE. 

AS  SHE  SAW  IT  FROM  THE  BELFRY. 

[This  poem  was  first  published  in  1875,  in  connection 
with  the  centenary  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  The  bel 
fry  could  hardly  have  been  that  of  Christ  Church,  since  tra 
dition  says  that  General  Gage  was  stationed  there  watching 
the  battle,  and  we  may  make  it  to  be  what  was  known  as 
the  New  Brick  Church,  built  in  1721,  on  Hanover,  corner 
of  Richmond  Street,  Boston,  rebuilt  of  stone  in  1845,  and 
pulled  down  at  the  widening  of  Hanover  Street  in  1871. 
There  are  many  narratives  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill. 
Frothingham's  History  of  the  Siege  of  Boston  is  one  of  the 
most  comprehensive  accounts,  and  has  furnished  material 
for  many  popular  narratives.  The  centennial  celebration 
of  the  battle  called  out  magazine  and  newspaper  articles, 
which  give  the  story  with  little  variation.  There  are  not 
many  disputed  points  in  connection  with  the  event,  the  prin 
cipal  one  being  the  discussion  as  to  who  was  the  chief 
officer.] 

T  is  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at  eighty,  one 

remembers 
All  the  achings  and  the  quakings  of  "  the  times  that 

tried  men's  souls ; " 

2.  In  December,  1776,  Thomas  Paine,  whose  Common  Sense  had 
80  remarkable  a  popularity  as  the  first  homely  expression  of 
public  opinion  on  Independence,  began  issuing  a  series  of  tracts 
called  The  Crisis,  eighteen  numbers  of  which  appeared.  The  fa 
miliar  words  quoted  by  the  grandmother  must  often  have  been 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  69 

When  I  talk  of  Whig  and  Tory,  when  I  tell  the  Reid 

story, 
To  you  the  words  are  ashes,  but  to  me  they  're  burn- 

ing  coals. 

I  had  heard  the  muskets'  rattle  of  the  April  running 

battle ;  8 

Lord  Percy's  hunted  soldiers,  I  can  see  their  red  coats 

still; 
But  a  deadly  chill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the  day  looms  up 

before  me, 
When  a  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on  the  slopes  of 

Bunker's  Hill. 

heard  and  used  by  her.  They  begin  the  first  number  of  The 
Crisis :  "  These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls  :  the  summer 
soldier  and  the  sunshine  patriot  will,  in  this  crisis,  shrink  from 
the  service  of  his  country  ;  but  he  that  stands  it  NOW  deserves 
the  love  and  thanks  of  man  and  woman." 

3.  The  terms  Whig  and  Tory  were  applied  to  the  two  parties 
in  England  who  represented,  respectively,  the  Whigs  political 
and  religious  liberty,  the  Tories  royal  prerogative  and  ecclesias 
tical  authority.  The  names  first  came  into  use  in  1679  in  the 
struggles  at  the  close  of  Charles  II. 's  reign,  and  continued  in  use 
until  a  generation  or  so  ago ,  when  they  gave  place  to  somewhat 
corresponding  terms  of  Liberal  and  Conservative.  At  the  break 
ing  out  of  the  war  for  Independence,  the  Whigs  in  England  op 
posed  the  measures  taken  by  the  crown  in  the  management  of 
the  American  colonies,  while  the  Tories  supported  the  crown. 
The  names  were  naturally  applied  in  America  to  the  patriotic 
party,  who  were  termed  Whigs,  and  the  loyalist  party,  termed 
Tories.  The  Tories  in  turn  called  the  patriots  rebels. 

5.  The  Lexington  and  Concord  affair  of  April  19,  1775,  when 
Lord  Percy's  soldiers  retreated  in  a  disorderly  manner  to 
Charlestown,  annoyed  on  the  way  by  the  Americans  who  fol 
lowed  and  accompanied  them. 


TO  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

T  was  a  peaceful  summer's  morning,  when  the  first 

thing  gave  us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the  river  and 

the  shore :  u 

'*  Child,"  says  grandma,  "  what 's  the  matter,  what  is 

all  this  noise  and  clatter  ? 
Have  those  scalping  Indian  devils  come  to  murder  us 

once  more  ?  " 

Poor  old  soul !  my  sides  were  shaking  in  the  midst  of 
all  my  quaking, 

To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns  began  to 
roar: 

She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and  the  slaughter 
and  the  pillage,  15 

When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father  with  their  bul 
lets  through  his  door. 

Then  I  said,  "  Now,  dear  old  granny,  don't  you  fret 

and  worry  any, 
For  I  '11  soon  come  back  and  tell  you  whether  this  is 

work  or  play ; 
There  can't  be  mischief  in  it,  so  I  won't  be  gone  a 

minute  "  — 
For  a  minute  then  I  started.     I  was  gone  the  livelong 

day.  w 

No  tune  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking-glass  grima 
cing; 

16.  The  Mohawks,  a  formidable  part  of  the  Six  Xations,  were 
held  in  great  dread,  as  they  were  the  most  cruel  and  warlike  of 
all  the  tribes.  In  connection  with  the  French  they  fell  upon  the 
frontier  settlements  during  Queen  Anne's  war,  early  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  committed  terrible  deeds,  long  remem 
bered  in  New  England  households. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  71 

Down  my  hair  went  as  I  hurried,  tumbling  half-way 
to  my  heels ; 

God  forbid  your  ever  knowing,  when  there  's  blood 
around  her  flowing, 

How  the  lonely,  helpless  daughter  of  a  quiet  house 
hold  feels ! 

In  the  street  I  heard  a  thumping ;  and  I  knew  it  was 

the  stumping  25 

Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  the  wooden  leg 

he  wore, 
With  a  knot  of  women  round  him,  —  it  was  lucky  I 

had  found  him, 
So   I  followed  with  the  others,   and   the  Corporal 

marched  before. 

They  were  making  for  the  steeple,  —  the  old  soldier 
and  his  people ; 

The  pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we  climbed  the  creak 
ing  stair,  M 

Just  across  the  narrow  river  —  Oh,  so  close  it  made 
me  shiver !  — 

Stood  a  fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but  yesterday  was 
bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it ;  well  we  knew  who  stood 
behind  it, 

Though  the  earthwork  hid  them  from  us,  and  the  stub 
born  walls  were  dumb : 

Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  looking  wild  upon 
each  other,  a» 

And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as  they  said, 
THE  HOUR  HAS  COMEl 


72  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

The  morning  slowly  wasted,  not  a  morsel  had  we 

tasted, 
And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting  with  the  cannons* 

deafening  thrill, 
When  a  figure  tall  and  stately  round  the  rampart 

strode  sedately ; 
It  was  PRESCOTT,  one  since  told  me ;  he  commanded 

on  the  hill.  40 

Every  woman's  heart  grew  bigger  when  we  saw  his 

manly  figure, 
With  the  banyan  buckled  round  it,  standing  up  so 

straight  and  tall ; 
Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure  who  is  strolling  out  for 

pleasure, 
Through  the    storm  of    shells  and   cannon-shot  he 

walked  around  the  wall. 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for  the  red-coats' 

ranks  were  forming ;  45 

At  noon  in  marching  order  they  were  moving  to  the 

piers ; 
How  the  bayonets  gleamed  and  glistened,  as  we  looked 

far  down,  and  listened 
To  the  trampling  and  the  drum-beat  of  the  belted 

grenadiers  ! 

40.  Colonel  William  Prescott,  who  commanded  the  detach 
ment  which  marched  from  Cambridge,  June  16,  1775,  to  fortify 
Breed's  Hill,  was  the  grandfather  of  William  Hickling  Prescott, 
the  historian.  He  was  hi  the  field  during  the  entire  battle  of 
the  17th,  in  command  of  the  redoubt. 

42.  Banyan  —  a  flowered  morning  gown  which  Prescott  is  said 
to  have  worn  during  the  hot  day,  a  good  illustration  of  the  un- 
military  appearance  of  the  soldiers  engaged.  His  nonchalant 
walk  upon  the  parapets  is  also  a  historic  fact,  and  was  for  the 
encouragement  of  the  troops  within  the  redoubt. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  73 

At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a  cheer  (it 
seemed  faint-hearted), 

In  their  scarlet  regimentals,  with  their  knapsacks  on 
their  backs,  so 

And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after  a  sea- 
fight's  slaughter, 

Round  the  barges  gliding  onward  blushed  like  blood 
along  their  tracks. 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and  again  they 
formed  in  order ; 

And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers,  came  for  sol 
diers,  soldiers  still : 

The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  women  faint  and 
fasting,  —  » 

At  last  they  're  moving,  marching,  marching  proudly 
up  the  hill. 

We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all  along  the 

lines  advancing  — 
Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley  —  they  have  thrown 

away  their  shot ; 
For  behind  their  earthwork  lying,  all  the  balls  above 

them  flying, 
Our  people  need  not  hurry ;  so  they  wait  and  answer 

not.  w 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple  (he  would  swear 

sometimes  and  tipple),  — 
He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the  old  French 

war)  before,  — 

62.  Many  of  the  officers  as  well  as  men  on  the  American  side 
had  become  familiarized  with  service  through  the  old  French 
war,  which  came  to  an  eud  in  1763. 


74  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they  all  were 
hearing,  — 

And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the  dusty  bel 
fry  floor :  — 

"  Oil !  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn  King  George's 
sliill  in's,  65 

But  ye  '11  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore  a  '  rebel '  falls ; 

You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome,  they  're  as  safe 
as  Dan'l  Malcolm 

Ten  foot  beneath  the  gravestone  that  you've  splin 
tered  with  your  balls ! " 

In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and  trepidation 

Of  the  dread  approaching  moment,  we  are  well-nigh 
breathless  all ;  70 

Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the  rickety  bel 
fry  railing, 

We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the  waves 
against  a  wall. 

67.  Dr.  Holmes  makes  the  following  note  to  this  line  :  "  The 
following  epitaph  is  still  to  be  read  on  a  tall  gravestone,  stand 
ing  as  yet  undisturbed  among  the  transplanted  monuments  of  the 
dead  in  Copp's  Hill  Burial  Ground,  one  of  the  three  city  [Boston] 
cemeteries  which  have  been  desecrated  and  ruined  within  my 
own  remembrance  :  — 

"  Here  lies  buried  in  a 

Stone  Grave  10  feet  deep 
Oapt.  DANIEL  MALCOLM  Mercht 
Who  departed  this  Life 
October  23,  1769, 
Aged  44  years, 
A  true  son  of  Liberty, 
A  Friend  to  the  Publick, 
An  Enemy  to  oppression, 
And  one  of  the  foremost 
In  opposing  the  Revenue  Acts 
On  America." 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  75 

Just  a  glimpse  (the  air  is  clearer),  they  are  nearer, 

—  nearer,  —  nearer, 
When   a  flash  —  a  curling   smoke-wreath  —  then   a 

crasjii  —  the  steeple  shakes  — 
The  deadly  truce  is  ended ;  the  tempest's  shroud  is 

rended ;  75 

Like  a  morning  mist  it  gathered,  like  a  thunder-cloud 

it  breaks! 

O  the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the  blue-black  smoke 

blows  over ! 
The  red-coats  stretched  in  windrows  as  a  mower  rakes 

his  hay ; 
Here  a  scarlet  heap  is  lying,  there  a  headlong  crowd 

is  flying 
Like  a  billow  that  has  broken  and  is  shivered  into 

spray.  w 

Then  we  cried,  "The  troops  are  routed!   they  are 

beat  —  it  can't  be  doubted  ! 
God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over !  "  —  Ah !  the  grim 

old  soldier's  smile ! 
"  Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so  ?  "  (we  could  hardly 

speak  we  shook  so),  — 
"Are  they  beaten?    Are  they  beaten?    ARE  they 

beaten  ?  "  —  "  Wait  a  while." 

O  the  trembling  and  the  terror !  for  too  soon  we  saw 

our  error :  85 

They  are  baffled,  not  defeated  ;  we  have  driven  them 

back  in  vain ; 
And  the  columns  that  were  scattered,  round  the  colors 

that  were  tattered, 
Toward  the  sullen  silent  fortress  turn  their  belted 

breasts  again. 
• 


76  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

All  at  once,  as  we  were  gazing,  lo !  the  roofs  of  Charles- 
town  blazing ! 

They  have  fired  the  harmless  village ;  in  an  hour  it 
will  be  down !  w 

The  Lord  in  Heaven  confound  them,  rain  his  fire  and 
brimstone  round  them,  — 

The  robbing,  murdering  red-coats,  that  would  burn  a 
peaceful  town  I 

They  are   marching,  stern  and  solemn;  we  can   see 

each  massive  column 
As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound  with  the  slanting 

walls  so  steep. 
Have  our  soldiers  got  faint-hearted,  and  in  noiseless 

haste  departed  ?  * 

Are  they  panic-struck  and  helpless  ?    Are  they  palsied 

or  asleep  ? 

Now !  the  walls  they  're  almost  under !  scarce  a  rod 

the  foes  asunder ! 
Not  a  firelock  flashed  against  them !  up  the  earthwork 

they  will  swarm ! 
But  the  words  have  scarce  been   spoken  when  the 

ominous  calm  is  broken, 
And  a  bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all  the  vengeance 

of  the  storm !  100 

So  again,  with  murderous  slaughter,  pelted  backwards 

to  the  water, 
Fly  Pigot's  running  heroes  and  the  frightened  braves 

of  Howe; 

102.  The  generals  on  the  British  side  were  Howe,  Clinton, 
and  Pigot. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  77 

And  we  shout,  "  At  last  they  're  done  for,  it 's  their 

barges  they  have  run  for  : 
They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten ;  and  the  battle  's  over 

now ! " 

And  we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on  the  rough 

old  soldier's  features,  105 

Our  lips  afraid   to  question,  but  he  knew  what  we 

would  ask : 
"Not  sure,"   he  said;  "keep  quiet,  —  once  more,  I 

guess,  they  '11  try  it  — 
Here  's  damnation  to  the  cut-throats  I  " then  he 

handed  me  his  flask, 

Saying,  "  Gal,  you  're  looking  shaky  ;  have  a  drop  of 

Old  Jamaiky ; 
I  'm  afeard  there  '11  be  more  trouble  afore  the  job  is 

done ; "  110 

So  I  took  one  scorching  swallow ;  dreadful  faint  I  felt 

and  hollow, 
Standing  there  from  early  morning  when  the  firing 

was  begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had  watched  a  calm 

clock  dial, 
As  the  hands  kept  creeping,   creeping, — they  were 

creeping  round  to  four, 
When  the  old  man  said,  "  They  're  forming  with  their 

bagonets  fixed  for  storming :  115 

It 's  the  death-grip  that 's  a  coming,  —  they  will  try 

the  works  once  more." 

With  brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames  behind  them 
glaring, 


78  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array  they 
come ; 

Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's  fold  un 
coiling,  — 

Like  the  rattlesnake's  shrill  warning  the  reverberating 
drum!  120 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory  —  shall  I  tell  the  fearful 
story, 

How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as  a  sea 
breaks  over  a  deck ; 

How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn-out  men 
retreated, 

With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like  the  swim 
mers  from  a  wreck? 

It  has  all  been  told  and  painted  ;  as  for  me,  they  say 

I  fainted,  125 

And  the  wooden-legged   old   Corporal  stumped  with 

me  down  the  stair : 
When  I  woke   from  dreams  affrighted   the  evening 

lamps  were  lighted, 
On  the  floor  a  youth  was  ^ying ,  his  bleeding  breast 

was  bare. 

And  I  heard  through  all  the  flurry,  "  Send  for  WAR 
REN  !  huvry !  hurry ! 

Tell  him  here 's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and  he  '11  come 
and  dress  his  wound  ! "  iso 

Ah,  we  knew  not  till  the  morrow  told  its  tale  of  death 
and  sorrow, 

129.  Dr.  Joseph  Warren,  of  equal  note  at  the  time  as  a  medi 
cal  man  and  a  patriot.  He  was  a  volunteer  in  the  battle,  and 
rell  there,  thft  most  serious  loss  on  the  American  side.  See  pp. 
328,  329. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY.  79 

How  the  starlight  found  him  stiffened  on  the  dark 
and  bloody  ground. 

Who  the  youth  was,  what  his  name  was,  where  the 

place  from  which  he  came  was, 
Who  had  brought  him  from  the  battle,  and  had  left 

him  at  our  door, 
He  could  not  speak  to  tell  us ;  but  't  was  one  of  OUT 

brave  fellows,  iss 

As  the  homespun  plainly  showed  us  which  the  dying 

soldier  wore. 

For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as  they  gathered 

round  him  crying,  — 
And  they  said,  "  Oh,  how  they  '11  miss  him  I "  and, 

"  What  will  his  mother  do? " 
Then,  his  eyelids  just  unclosing  like  a  child's  that  has 

been  dozing, 
He  faintly  murmured,  "  Mother ! " and  —  I  saw 

his  eyes  were  blue.  MO 

—  "  Why  grandma,  how  you  're  winking !  "  —  Ah,  my 

child,  it  sets  me  thinking 
Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.     Well,  he  somehow  lived 

along ; 
So  we  came  to  know  each  other,  and  I  nursed  him  like 

a  —  mother, 
Till  at  last  he  stood  before  me,  tall,  and  rosy-cheeked, 

and  strong. 

And  we  sometimes  walked  together  in  the  pleasant 
summer  weather ;  145 

—  "  Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name  was  ?  "  —  Just 

your  own,  my  little  dear, 


80  OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES. 

There  's  his  picture  Copley  painted :  we  became  so 

well  acquainted, 
That,  —  in  short,  that 's  why  I  'm  grandma,  and  you 

children  are  all  here  ! 


THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

ANKTVEBSABY   OF   THE   BERKSHIRE    AGRICULTURAL 
SOCIETY,    OCTOBER    4,   1849. 

CLEAR  the  brown  path,  to  meet  his  coulter's  gleam  1 
Lo  !  on  he  comes,  behind  his  smoking  team, 
With  toil's  bright  dew-drops  on  his  sunburnt  brow, 
The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of  the  plough ! 

First  in  the  field  before  the  reddening  sun,  * 

Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  day  is  done, 

Line  after  line,  along  the  bursting  sod, 

Marks  the  broad  acres  where  his  feet  have  trod ; 

Still  where  he  treads,  the  stubborn  clods  divide, 

The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens  deep  and  wide  ;         10 

Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  upheaves, 

Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  cornfield  cleaves ; 

Up  the  steep  hillside,  where  the  laboring  train 

Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the  level  plain ; 

Through  the  moist  valley,  clogged  with  oozing  clay,  is 

The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined  way ; 

At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  resound, 

147.  John  Singleton  Copley  was  a  portrait  painter  of  cele 
brity,  who  was  born  in  America  in  1737,  and  painted  many 
famous  portraits,  which  hang  in  private  and  pnblic  galleries  in 
Boston  and  vicinity  chiefly.  He  lived  in  England  the  latter  half 
of  his  life,  dying  there  in  1815. 


THE  PLOUGHMAN.  81 

The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glistening  round, 

Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  appears, 

And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting  steers.  a> 

These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor  brings 
The  peasant's  food,  the  golden  pomp  of  kings ; 
This  is  the  page  whose  letters  shall  be  seen 
Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living  green  ; 
This  is  the  scholar  whose  immortal  pen  » 

Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to  men ; 
These  are  the  lines  which  heaven-commanded  Toil 
Shows  on  his  deed,  —  the  charter  of  the  soil ! 

O  gracious  Mother,  whose  benignant  breast 

Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest,  to 

How  thy  sweet  features,  kind  to  every  clime, 

Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front  of  time  ! 

We  stain  thy  flowers, — they  blossom  o'er  the  dead  ; 

We  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  bread  ; 

O'er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife  has  torn,         » 

Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tasselled  corn ; 

Our  maddening  conflicts  scar  thy  fairest  plain, 

Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 

Yet,  O  our  Mother,  while  uncounted  charms 

Steal  round  our  hearts  in  thine  embracing  arms          40 

Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay, 

And  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  our  strength  away. 

No !  by  these  hills,  whose  banners  now  displayed 

In  blazing  cohorts  Autumn  has  arrayed ; 

By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery  crests          *> 

The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagles'  nests  ; 

By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  circle  screens, 

And  feeds  with  streamlets  from  its  dark  ravines,  — 


82  OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES. 

True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms  shall  toil 

To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted  soil ;  ao 

And,  true  to  God,  to  freedom,  to  mankind, 

If  her  chained  bandogs  Faction  shall  unbind, 

These  stately  forms,  that  bending  even  now 

Bowed  their  strong  manhood  to  the  humble  plough, 

Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the  land,  » 

The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  the  shouts  of  triumph  run, 

The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  ploughshare  won ! 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings,  6 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell,  10 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  I 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil  is 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 


THE  IRON  GATE.  88 

He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door,  M 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 

From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born  as 

Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn  ! 

While  on  my  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll!  » 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past  I 

Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 

Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 
Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine   outgrown   shell  by  life's  unresting* 
sea!  36 

THE  IRON  GATE. 

BEAD  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  GIVEN  IN  HONOR  OF  DR.  HOLMES'S 
SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  BY  THE  PUBLISHERS  OF  THE  ATLAN 
TIC  MONTHLY,  BOSTON,  DECEMBER  3,  1879. 

WHERE  is  this  patriarch  you  are  kindly  greeting  ? 

Not  unfamiliar  to  my  ear  his  name, 
Nor  yet  unknown  to  many  a  joyous  meeting 

In  days  long  vanished, — is  he  still  the  same, 


84  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Or  changed  by  years,  forgotten,  and  forgetting,  • 

Dull-eared,  dim-sighted,  slow  of  speech  and  thought, 

Still  o'er  the  sad,  degenerate  present  fretting, 
Where  all  goes  wrong,  and  nothing  as  it  ought  ? 

Old  age,  the  graybeard  I     Well,  indeed,  I  know  him, 
Shrunk,  tottering,  bent,  of  aches  and  ills  the  prey  ;  10 

In  sermon,  story,  fable,  picture,  poem, 

Oft  have  I  met  him  from  my  earliest  day  : 

In  my  old  JEsop,  toiling  with  his  bundle,  — 
His  load  of  sticks,  —  politely  asking  Death 

Who  comes  when  called  for,  —  would  he  lug  or  trun 
dle  15 
His  fagot  for  him  ?  —  he  was  scant  of  breath. 

And  sad  "  Ecclesiastes,  or  the  Preacher,"  — 
Has  he  not  stamped  the  image  on  my  soul, 

In  that  last  chapter,  where  the  worn-out  Teacher 
Sighs  o'er  the  loosened  cord,  the  broken  bowl  ?      2* 

Yes,  long,  indeed,  I  've  known  him  at  a  distance, 
And  now  my  lifted  door-latch  shows  him  here  ; 

I  take  his  shrivelled  hand  without  resistance, 
And  find  him  smiling  as  his  step  draws  near. 

What  though  of  gilded  baubles  he  bereaves  us,  25 

Dear  to  the  heart  of  youth,  to  manhood's  prime ; 

Think  of  the  calm  he  brings,  the  wealth  he  leaves  us, 
The  hoarded  spoils,  the  legacies  of  time ! 

Altars  once  flaming,  still  with  incense  fragrant, 

Passion's  uneasy  nurslings  rocked  asleep,  *> 

Hope's  anchor  faster,  wild  desire  less  vagrant, 
Life's  flow  less  noisy,  but  the  stream  how  deep  I 


THE  IRON  GATE.  86 

Still  as  the  silver  cord  gets  worn  and  slender, 

Its  lightened  task-work  tugs  with  lessening  strain, 

Hands  yet  more  helpful,  voices  grown  more  tender,    as 
Soothe    with   their  softened  tones  the  slumberous 
brain. 

Youth  longs  and  manhood  strives,  but  age  remembers, 

Sits  by  the  raked-up  ashes  of  the  past, 
Spreads  its  thin  hands  above  the  whitening  embers 

That  warm  its  creeping  life-blood  till  the  last.         « 

Dear  to  its  heart  is  every  loving  token 

That  comes  unbidden  ere  its  pulse  grows  cold, 

Ere  the  last  lingering  ties  of  life  are  broken, 
Its  labors  ended  and  its  story  told. 

Ah,  while  around  us  rosy  youth  rejoices,  45 

For  us  the  sorrow-laden  breezes  sigh, 
And  through  the  chorus  of  its  jocund  voices 

Throbs  the  sharp  note  of  misery's  hopeless  cry. 

As  on  the  gauzy  wings  of  fancy  flying 

From  some  far  orb  I  track  our  watery  sphere,        co 
Home  of  the  struggling,  suffering,  doubting,  dying, 

The  silvered  globule  seems  a  glistening  tear. 

But  Nature  lends  her  mirror  of  illusion 

To  win  from  saddening  scenes  our  age-dimmed  eyes, 
And  misty  day-dreams  blend  in  sweet  confusion          66 

The  wintry  landscape  and  the  summer  skies. 

So  when  the  iron  portal  shuts  behind  us, 
And  life  forgets  us  in  its  noise  and  whirl, 

Visions  that  shunned  the  glaring  noon-day  find  us, 
And  glimmering  starlight  shows  the  gates  of  pearl,  w 


86  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

—  I  come  not  here  your  morning  hour  to  sadden, 
A  limping  pilgrim,  leaning  on  his  staff,  — 

I,  who  have  never  deemed  it  sin  to  gladden 
This  vale  of  sorrow  with  a  wholesome  laugh. 

If  word  of  mine  another's  gloom  has  brightened,        es 
Through  my  dumb   lips  the  heaven-sent  message 
came; 

If  hand  of  mine  another's  task  has  lightened, 
It  felt  the  guidance  that  it  dares  not  claim. 

But,  O  my  gentle  sisters,  O  my  brothers, 

These  thick-sown  snow-flakes  hint  of  toil's  release ;  70 

These  feebler  pulses  bid  me  leave  to  others 

The  tasks  once  welcome ;  evening  asks  for  peace. 

Time  claims  his  tribute ;  silence  now  is  golden ; 

Let  me  not  vex  the  too  long  suffering  lyre ; 
Though  to  your  love  untiring  still  beholden,  75 

The  curfew  tells  me  —  cover  up  the  fire. 

And  now  with  grateful  smile  and  accents  cheerful, 

And  warmer  heart  than  look  or  word  can  tell, 
In  simplest  phrase  —  these  traitorous  eyes  are  tear 
ful- 
Thanks,  Brothers,   Sisters  —  Children  —  and  f are- 
well  1  80 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

IT  was  Hawthorne's  wont  to  keep  note-books,  in  which  he 
recorded  his  observations  and  reflections;  sometimes  he 
spoke  in  them  of  himself,  his  plans,  and  his  prospects.  He 
began  the  practice  early,  and  continued  it  through  life ;  and 
after  his  death  selections  from  these  note-books  were  pub. 
lished  in  six  volumes,  under  the  titles :  Passages  from  the 
American  Note-Books  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  Passages 
from  the  English  Note-Books  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 
and  Passages  from  the  French  and  Italian  Note-Books  of 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  In  these  books,  and  in  prefaces 
which  appear  in  the  front  of  the  volumes  containing  his  col 
lected  stories,  one  finds  many  frank  expressions  of  the  interest 
which  Hawthorne  took  in  his  work,  and  the  author  appeals 
very  ingenuously  to  the  reader,  speaking  with  an  almost 
confidential  closeness  of  his  stories  and  sketches.  Then  the 
Note-Books  contain  the  unwrought  material  of  the  books 
which  the  writer  put  out  in  his  lifetime.  One  finds  there 
the  suggestions  of  stories,  and  frequently  pages  of  observa 
tion  and  reflection,  which  were  afterward  transferred,  almost 
as  they  stood,  into  the  author's  works.  It  is  very  interesting 
labor  to  trace  Hawthorne's  stories  and  sketches  back  to 
these  records  in  his  note-books,  and  to  compare  the  finished 
work  with  the  rough  material.  It  seems,  also,  as  if  each 
reader  was  admitted  into  the  privacy  of  the  author's  mind. 
That  is  the  first  impression,  but  a  closer  study  reveals  two 


88  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

facts  very  clearly.  One  is  stated  by  Hawthorne  himself  in 
his  preface  to  The  Snow-Image  and  other  Twice-Told 
Tales :  "  I  have  been  especially  careful  [in  my  Introduc 
tions]  to  make  no  disclosures  respecting  myself  which  the 
most  indifferent  observer  might  not  have  been  acquainted 
with,  and  which  I  was  not  perfectly  willing  that  my  worst 
enemy  should  know.  ...  I  have  taken  facts  which  relate 
to  myself  [when  telling  stories]  because  they  chance  to  be 
nearest  at  hand,  and  likewise  are  my  own  property.  And, 
as  for  egotism,  a  person  who  has  been  burrowing,  to  his 
utmost  ability,  into  the  depths  of  our  common  nature  for  the 
purposes  of  psychological  romance  —  and  who  pursues  his 
researches  in  that  dusky  region,  as  he  needs  must,  as  well  by 
the  tact  of  sympathy  as  by  the  light  of  observation  —  will 
smile  at  incurring  such  an  imputation  in  virtue  of  a  little 
preliminary  talk  about  his  external  habits,  his  abode,  his 
casual  associates,  and  other  matters  entirely  upon  the  sur 
face.  These  things  hide  the  man  instead  of  displaying  him. 
You  must  make  quite  another  kind  of  inquest,  and  look 
through  the  whole  range  of  his  fictitious  characters,  good 
and  evil,  in  order  to  detect  any  of  his  essential  traits." 

There  has  rarely  been  a  writer  of  fiction,  then,  whose  per 
sonality  has  been  so  absolutely  separate  from  that  of  each 
character  created  by  him,  and  at  the  same  time  has  so  inti 
mately  penetrated  the  whole  body  of  his  writing.  Of  no 
one  of  his  characters,  male  or  female,  is  one  ever  tempted 
to  say,  This  is  Hawthorne,  except  in  the  case  of  Miles  Cov- 
erdale  in  The  Blithedale  Romance,  where  the  circumstances 
of  the  story  tempt  one  into  an  identification ;  yet  all  Haw 
thorne's  work  is  stamped  emphatically  with  his  mark. 
Hawthorne  wrote  it,  is  very  simple  and  easy  to  say  of  all 
but  the  merest  trifle  in  his  collected  works ;  but  the  world 
has  yet  to  learn  who  Hawthorne  was,  and  even  if  he  had 
not  forbidden  a  biography  of  himself,  it  is  scarcely  likely 
that  any  Life  could  have  disclosed  more  than  he  has  chosen 
himself  to  reveal. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  89 

The  advantage  of  this  is  that  it  leaves  the  student  free  to 
concentrate  his  attention  upon  the  writings  rather  than  on 
the  man.  Hawthorne,  in  the  passage  quoted  above,  speaks 
of  himself  as  one  "  who  has  been  burrowing,  to  his  utmost 
ability,  into  the  depths  of  our  common  nature  for  the  pur 
poses  of  psychological  romance  ;  "  and  this  states,  as  closely 
as  so  short  a  sentence  can,  the  controlling  purpose  and  end 
of  the  author.  The  vitality  of  Hawthorne's  characters  is 
derived  but  little  from  any  external  description ;  it  resides 
in  the  truthfulness  with  which  they  respond  to  some  perma 
nent  and  controlling  operation  of  the  human  soul.  Looking 
into  his  own  heart,  and  always,  when  studying  others,  in 
search  of  fundamental  rather  than  occasional  motives,  he 
proceeded  to  develop  these  motives  in  conduct  and  life. 
Hence  he  had  a  leaning  toward  the  allegory,  where  human 
figures  are  merely  masks  for  spiritual  activities,  and  some 
times  he  employed  the  simple  allegory,  as  in  The  Celestial 
Railroad.  More  often  in  his  short  stories  he  has  a  spiritual 
truth  to  illustrate,  and  uses  the  simplest,  most  direct  means, 
taking  no  pains  to  conceal  his  purpose,  yet  touching  his 
characters  quietly  or  playfully  with  human  sensibilities,  and 
investing  them  with  just  so  much  real  life  as  answers  the 
purpose  of  the  story.  This  is  exquisitely  done  in  The  Snoio- 
Image.  The  consequence  of  this  "burrowing  into  the 
depths  of  our  common  nature  "  has  been  to  bring  much  of 
the  darker  and  concealed  life  into  the  movement  of  his 
stories.  The  fact  of  evil  is  the  terrible  fact  of  life,  and  its 
workings  in  the  human  soul  had  more  interest  for  Hawthorne 
than  the  obvious  physical  manifestations.  Since  his  obser 
vations  are  less  of  the  men  and  women  whom  everybody  sees 
and  recognizes  than  of  the  souls  which  are  hidden  from 
most  eyes,  it  is  not  strange  that  his  stories  should  often  lay 
bare  secrets  of  sin,  and  that  a  somewhat  dusky  light  should 
seem  to  be  the  atmosphere  of  much  of  his  work.  Now  and 
then,  especially  when  dealing  with  childhood,  a  warm,  sunny 
glow  spreads  over  the  pages  of  his  books ;  but  the  reader  must 


90  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

be  prepared  for  the  most  part  to  read  stories  which  lie  in 
the  shadow  of  life. 

There  was  one  class  of  subjects  which  had  a  peculiar  in 
terest  for  Hawthorne,  and  in  a  measure  affected  his  work. 
He  had  a  strong  taste  for  New  England  history,  and  he 
found  in  the  scenes  and  characters  of  that  history  favorable 
material  for  the  representation  of  spiritual  conflict.  He  was 
himself  the  most  New  English  of  New  Englanders,  and 
held  an  extraordinary  sympathy  with  the  very  soil  of  his 
section  of  the  country.  By  this  sympathy,  rather  than  by 
any  painful  research,  he  was  singularly  acquainted  with  the 
historic  life  of  New  England.  His  stories,  based  directly 
on  historic  facts,  are  true  to  the  spirit  of  the  times  in  some 
thing  more  than  an  archaeological  way.  One  is  astonished 
at  the  ease  with  which  he  seized  upon  characteristic  fea 
tures,  and  reproduced  them  in  a  word  or  phrase.  Merely 
careful  and  diligent  research  would  never  be  adequate  to 
give  the  life-likeness  of  the  images  in  Howe's  Masquerade. 

There  is,  then,  a  second  fact  discovered  by  a  study  of 
Hawthorne,  that  while  one  finds  in  the  Note-Books,  for  ex 
ample,  the  material  out  of  which  stories  and  sketches  seem 
to  have  been  constructed,  and  while  the  facts  of  New  Eng 
land  history  have  been  used  without  exaggeration  or  distor 
tion,  the  result  in  stories  and  romances  is  something  far  be 
yond  a  mere  report  of  what  has  been  seen  and  read.  The 
charm  of  a  vivifying  imagination  is  the  crowning  charm  of 
Hawthorne's  stories,  and  its  medium  is  a  graceful  and  often 
exquisitely  apt  diction.  Hawthorne's  sense  of  touch  as  a 
•writer  is  very  fine.  He  knows  when  to  be  light,  and  when 
to  press  heavily ;  a  very  conspicuous  quality  is  what  one 
is  likely  to  term  quaintness,  —  a  gentle  pleasantry  which 
seems  to  spring  from  the  author's  attitude  toward  his  own 
work,  as  if  he  looked  upon  that,  too,  as  a  part  of  the  spirit 
ual  universe  which  he  was  surveying. 

Hawthorne  spent  much  of  his  life  silently,  and  there  are 
touching  passages  in  his  note-books  regarding  his  sense  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  91 

loneliness  and  his  wish  for  recognition  from  the  world.  His 
early  writings  were  short  stories,  sketches,  and  biographies, 
scattered  in  magazines  and  brought  together  into  Twice- 
Told  Tales,  in  two  volumes,  published,  the  first  in  1837, 
the  second  in  1842  ;  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,  in  1846  ; 
The  Snow-Image  and  other  Twice- Told  Tales,  in  1851. 
They  had  a  limited  circle  of  readers.  Some  recognized  his 
genius,  but  it  was  not  until  the  publication  of  The  Scarlet 
Letter,  in  1850,  that  Hawthorne's  name  was  fairly  before 
the  world  as  a  great  and  original  writer  of  romance.  The 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables  followed  in  1851 ;  The  Blithe- 
dale  Romance  in  1852.  He  spent  the  years  1853-1860  in 
Europe,  and  the  immediate  result  of  his  life  there  is  in  Our 
Old  Home :  A  Series  of  English  Sketches,  published  in 
1863,  and  The  Marble  Faun,  or  the  Romance  of  Monte 
Beni,  in  1860.  For  young  people  he  wrote  Grandfather's 
Chair,  a  collection  of  stories  from  New  England  history, 
The  Wonder-Book  and  Tanglewood  Tales,  containing 
stories  out  of  classic  mythology.  There  are  a  few  other 
scattered  writings  which  have  been  collected  into  volumes 
and  published  in  the  complete  series  of  his  works. 

Hawthorne  was  born  July  4,  1804,  and  died  May  19, 
1864. 

The  student  of  Hawthorne  will  find  in  G.  P.  Lathrop's 
A  Study  of  Hawthorne,  and  Henry  James,  Jr.'s  Hawthorne. 
in  the  series  English  Men  of  Letters,  material  which  will 
assist  him.  Dr.  Holmes  published,  shortly  after  Haw 
thorne's  death,  a  paper  of  reminiscences  which  is  included 
in  Soundings  from  the  Atlantic  ;  and  Longfellow  welcomed 
Twice-Told  Todes  with  a  glowing  article  in  the  North 
American  Review,  xlviii.  59,  which  is  reproduced  in  his 
prose  works.  The  reader  will  find  it  an  agreeable  task  to 
discover  what  the  poets,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Stedman,  and 
others,  have  said  of  this  man  of  genius. 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE. 

ONE  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  going  down,  a 
mother  and  her  little  boy  sat  at  the  door  of  their  cot 
tage,  talking  about  the  Great  Stone  Face.  They  had 
but  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  there  it  was  plainly  to  be 
seen,  though  miles  away,  with  the  sunshine  brighten 
ing  all  its  features. 

And  what  was  the  Great  Stone  Face  ? 

Embosomed  amongst  a  family  of  lofty  mountains 
there  was  a  valley  so  spacious  that  it  contained  many 
thousand  inhabitants.  Some  of  these  good  people 
dwelt  in  log  huts,  with  the  black  forest  all  around 
them,  on  the  steep  and  difficult  hillsides.  Others  had 
their  homes  in  comfortable  farm-houses,  and  culti 
vated  the  rich  soil  on  the  gentle  slopes  or  level  surfaces 
of  the  valley.  Others,  again,  were  congregated  into 
populous  villages,  where  some  wild,  highland  rivulet, 
tumbling  down  from  its  birthplace  in  the  upper  moun 
tain  region,  had  been  caught  and  tamed  by  human  cun 
ning  and  compelled  to  turn  the  machinery  of  cotton- 
factories.  The  inhabitants  of  this  valley,  in  short,  were 
numerous,  and  of  many  modes  of  life.  But  all  of 
them,  grown  people  and  children,  had  a  kind  of  fa 
miliarity  with  the  Great  Stone  Face,  although  some 
possessed  the  gift  of  distinguishing  this  grand  natural 
phenomenon  more  perfectly  than  many  of  their  neigh 
bors. 

The  Great  Stone  Face,  then,  was  a  work  of  Nature 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        98 

in  her  mood  of  majestic  playfulness,  formed  on  the 
perpendicular  side  of  a  mountain  by  some  immense 
rocks,  which  had  been  thrown  together  in  such  a  posi 
tion  as,  when  viewed  at  a  proper  distance,  precisely  to 
resemble  the  features 'of  the  human  countenance.  It 
seemed  as  if  an  enormous  giant,  or  a  Titan,  had  sculp 
tured  his  own  likeness  on  the  precipice.  There  was 
the  broad  arch  of  the  forehead,  a  hundred  feet  in 
height ;  the  nose,  with  its  long  bridge ;  and  the  vast 
lips,  which,  if  they  could  have  spoken,  would  have 
rolled  their  thunder  accents  from  one  end  of  the  val 
ley  to  the  other.  True  it  is,  that  if  the  spectator 
approached  too  near  he  lost  the  outline  of  the  gigantic 
visage,  and  could  discern  only  a  heap  of  ponderous 
and  gigantic  rocks,  piled  in  chaotic  ruin  one  upon 
another.  Retracing  his  steps,  however,  the  wondrous 
features  would  again  be  seen ;  and  the  farther  he  with 
drew  from  them,  the  more  like  a  human  face,  with  all 
its  original  divinity  intact,  did  they  appear  ;  until,  as 
it  grew  dim  in  the  distance,  with  the  clouds  and  glori 
fied  vapor  of  the  mountains  clustering  about  it,  the 
Great  Stone  Face  seemed  positively  to  be  alive. 

It  was  a  happy  lot  for  children  to  grow  up  to  man 
hood  or  womanhood  with  the  Great  Stone  Face  before 
their  eyes,  for  all  the  features  were  noble,  and  the 
expression  was  at  once  grand  and  sweet,  as  if  it  were 
the  glow  of  a  vast,  warm  heart,  that  embraced  all 
mankind  in  its  affections,  and  had  room  for  more.  It 
was  an  education  only  to  look  at  it.  According  to  the 
belief  of  many  people,  the  valley  owed  much  of  its 
fertility  to  this  benign  aspect  that  was  continually 
beaming  over  it,  illuminating  the  clouds,  and  infusing 
its  tenderness  into  the  sunshine. 

As  we  began  with  saying,  a  mother  and  her  little 


94  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

boy  sat  at  their  cottage-door,  gazing  at  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  and  talking  about  it.  The  child's  name 
was  Ernest. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  while  the  Titanic  visage  smiled 
on  him,  "  I  wish  that  it  could  speak,  for  it  looks  so 
very  kindly  that  its  voice  must  needs  be  pleasant.  If 
I  were  to  see  a  man  with  such  a  face,  I  should  love 
him  dearly." 

"  If  an  old  prophecy  should  come  to  pass,"  an 
swered  his  mother,  "  we  may  see  a  man,  some  time  or 
other,  with  exactly  such  a  face  as  that." 

"  What  prophecy  do  you  mean,  dear  mother  ? " 
eagerly  inquired  Ernest.  "Pray  tell  me  all  about 
it!"  ' 

So  his  mother  told  him  a  story  that  her  own  mother 
had  told  to  her,  when  she  herself  was  younger  than 
little  Ernest ;  a  story,  not  of  things  that  were  past, 
but  of  what  was  yet  to  come ;  a  story,  nevertheless, 
so  very  old,  that  even  the  Indians,  who  formerly 
inhabited  this  valley,  had  heard  it  from  their  fore 
fathers,  to  whom,  as  they  affirmed,  it  had  been  mur 
mured  by  the  mountain  streams,  and  whispered  by 
the  wind  among  the  tree-tops.  The  purport  was, 
that,  at  some  future  day,  a  child  should  be  born  here 
abouts,  who  was  destined  to  become  the  greatest  and 
noblest  personage  of  his  time,  and  whose  countenance, 
in  manhood,  should  bear  an  exact  resemblance  to  the 
Great  Stone  Face.  Not  a  few  old-fashioned  people,  and 
young  ones  likewise,  in  the  ardor  of  their  hopes,  still 
cherished  an  enduring  faith  in  this  old  prophecy.  But 
others,  who  had  seen  more  of  the  world,  had  watched 
and  waited  till  they  were  weary,  and  had  beheld  no 
man  with  such  a  face,  nor  any  man  that  proved  to  be 
much  greater  or  nobler  than  his  neighbors,  concluded 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  95 

it  to  be  nothing  but  an  idle  tale.  At  all  events,  the 
great  man  of  the  prophecy  had  not  yet  appeared. 

"  O  mother,  dear  mother  I  "  cried  Ernest,  clapping 
his  hands  above  his  head,  "  I  do  hope  that  I  shall  live 
to  see  him  !  " 

His  mother  was  an  affectionate  and  thoughtful 
woman,  and  felt  that  it  was  wisest  not  to  discourage 
the  generous  hopes  of  her  little  boy.  So  she  only  said 
to  him,  "  Perhaps  you  may." 

And  Ernest  never  forgot  the  story  that  his  mother 
told  him.  It  was  always  in  his  mind,  whenever  he 
looked  upon  the  Great  Stone  Face.  He  spent  his 
childhood  in  the  log  cottage  where  he  was  born,  and 
was  dutiful  to  his  mother,  and  helpful  to  her  in  many 
things,  assisting  her  much  with  his  little  hands,  and 
more  with  his  loving  heart.  In  this  manner,  from  a 
happy  yet  often  pensive  child,  he  grew  up  to  be  a 
mild,  quiet,  unobtrusive  boy,  and  sun-browned  with 
labor  in  the  fields,  but  with  more  intelligence  bright 
ening  his  aspect  than  is  seen  in  many  lads  who  have 
been  taught  at  famous  schools.  Yet  Ernest  had  had 
no  teacher,  save  only  that  the  Great  Stone  Face  be 
came  one  to  him.  When  the  toil  of  the  day  was  over, 
he  would  gaze  at  it  for  hours,  until  he  began  to 
imagine  that  those  vast  features  recognized  him,  and 
gave  him  a  smile  of  kindness  and  encouragement, 
responsive  to  his  own  look  of  veneration.  We  must 
not  take  upon  us  to  affirm  that  this  was  a  mistake, 
although  the  face  may  have  looked  no  more  kindly  at 
Ernest  than  at  all  the  world  besides.  But  the  secret 
was,  that  the  boy's  tender  and  confiding  simplicity 
discerned  what  other  people  could  not  see  ;  and  thus 
the  love,  which  was  meant  for  all,  became  his  peculiar 
portion. 


96  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

About  this  time  there  went  a  rumor  throughout  the 
valley,  that  the  great  man,  foretold  from  ages  long 
ago,  who  was  to  bear  a  resemblance  to  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  had  appeared  at  last.  It  seems  that, 
many  years  before,  a  young  man  had  migrated  from 
the  valley  and  settled  at  a  distant  seaport,  where, 
after  getting  together  a  little  money,  he  had  set  up  as 
a  shopkeeper.  His  name  —  but  I  could  never  learn 
whether  it  was  his  real  one,  or  a  nickname  that  had 
grown  out  of  his  habits  and  success  in  life  —  was 
Gathergold.  Being  shrewd  and  active,  and  endowed 
by  Providence  with  that  inscrutable  faculty  which 
develops  itself  in  what  the  world  calls  luck,  he  became 
an  exceedingly  rich  merchant,  and  owner  of  a  whole 
fleet  of  bulky-bottomed  ships.  All  the  countries  of 
the  globe  appeared  to  join  hands  for  the  mere  purpose 
of  adding  heap  after  heap  to  the  mountainous  accu 
mulation  of  this  one  man's  wealth.  The  cold  regions 
of  the  north,  almost  within  the  gloom  and  shadow  of 
the  Arctic  Circle,  sent  him  their  tribute  in  the  shape 
of  furs ;  hot  Africa  sifted  for  him  the  golden  sands  of 
her  rivers,  and  gathered  up  the  ivory  tusks  of  her 
great  elephants  out  of  the  forests ;  the  East  came 
bringing  him  the  rich  shawls,  and  spices,  and  teas, 
and  the  effulgence  of  diamonds,  and  the  gleaming 
purity  of  large  pearls.  The  ocean,  not  to  be  behind 
hand  with  the  earth,  yielded  up  her  mighty  whales, 
that  Mr.  Gathergold  might  sell  their  oil,  and  make  a 
profit  on  it.  Be  the  original  commodity  what  it 
might,  it  was  gold  within  his  grasp.  It  might  be 
said  of  him,  as  of  Midas  in  the  fable,  that  whatever 
he  touched  with  his  finger  immediately  glistened,  and 
grew  yellow,  and  was  changed  at  once  into  sterling 
metal,  or,  which  suited  him  still  better,  into  piles  of 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        97 

coin.  And,  when  Mr.  Gathergold  had  become  so  very 
rich  that  it  would  have  taken  him  a  hundred  years 
only  to  count  his  wealth,  he  bethought  himself  of  his 
native  valley,  and  resolved  to  go  back  thither,  and 
end  his  days  where  he  was  born.  With  this  purpose 
in  view,  he  sent  a  skilful  architect  to  build  him  such  a 
palace  as  should  be  fit  for  a  man  of  his  vast  wealth  to 
live  in. 

As  I  have  said  above,  it  had  already  been  rumored 
in  the  valley  that  Mr.  Gathergold  had  turned  out  to 
be  the  prophetic  personage  so  long  and  vainly  looked 
for,  and  that  his  visage  was  the  perfect  and  undeniable 
similitude  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  People  were  the 
more  ready  to  believe  that  this  must  needs  be  the  fact, 
when  they  beheld  the  splendid  edifice  that  rose,  as  if  by 
enchantment,  on  the  site  of  his  father's  old  weather- 
beaten  farmhouse.  The  exterior  was  of  marble,  so 
dazzlingly  white  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  whole 
structure  might  melt  away  in  the  sunshine,  like  those 
humbler  ones  which  Mr.  Gathergold,  in  his  young 
play-days,  before  his  fingers  were  gifted  with  the  touch 
of  transmutation,  had  been  accustomed  to  build  of 
snow.  It  had  a  richly  ornamented  portico,  supported 
by  tall  pillars,  beneath  which  was  a  lofty  door,  studded 
with  silver  knobs,  and  made  of  a  kind  of  variegated 
wood  that  had  been  brought  from  beyond  the  sea. 
The  windows,  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  of  each 
stately  apartment,  were  composed,  respectively,  of  but 
one  enormous  pane  of  glass,  so  transparently  pure  that 
it  was  said  to  be  a  finer  medium  than  even  the  vacant 
atmosphere.  Hardly  anybody  had  been  permitted  to 
see  the  interior  of  this  palace ;  but  it  was  reported, 
and  with  good  semblance  of  truth,  to  be  far  more 
gorgeous  than  the  outside,  insomuch  that  whatever 


98  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

was  iron  or  brass  in  other  houses  was  silver  or  gold  in 
this;  and  Mr.  Gathergold's  bedchamber,  especially, 
made  such  a  glittering  appearance  that  no  ordinary 
man  would  have  been  able  to  close  his  eyes  there. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Gathergold  was  now  so 
inured  to  wealth,  that  perhaps  he  could  not  have 
closed  his  eyes  unless  where  the  gleam  of  it  was  cer 
tain  to  find  its  way  beneath  his  eyelids. 

In  due  time,  the  mansion  was  finished  ;  next  came 
the  upholsterers,  with  magnificent  furniture;  then  a 
whole  troop  of  black  and  white  servants,  the  harbin 
gers  of  Mr.  Gathergold,  who,  in  his  own  majestic  per 
son,  was  expected  to  arrive  at  sunset.  Our  friend 
Ernest,  meanwhile,  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  the 
idea  that  the  great  man,  the  noble  man,  the  man  of 
prophecy,  after  so  many  ages  of  delay,  was  at  length 
to  be  made  manifest  to  his  native  valley.  He  knew, 
boy  as  he  was,  that  there  were  a  thousand  ways  in 
which  Mr.  Gathergold,  with  his  vast  wealth,  might 
transform  himself  into  an  angel  of  beneficence,  and 
assume  a  control  over  human  affairs  as  wide  and  be 
nignant  as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Full 
of  faith  and  hope,  Ernest  doubted  not  that  what  the 
people  said  was  true,  and  that  now  he  was  to  behold 
the  living  likeness  of  those  wondrous  features  on  the 
mountain-side.  While  the  boy  was  still  gazing  up  the 
valley,  and  fancying,  as  he  always  did,  that  the  Great 
Stone  Face  returned  his  gaze  and  looked  kindly  at 
him,  the  rumbling  of  wheels  was  heard,  approaching 
swiftly  along  the  winding  road. 

"  Here  he  comes !  "  cried  a  group  of  people  who. 
were  assembled  to  witness  the  arrival.  "  Here  cornea 
the  great  Mr.  Gathergold  !  " 

A  carriage  drawn  by  four  horses  dashed  round  the 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        99 

turn  of  the  road.  Within  it,  thrust  partly  out  of  the 
window,  appeared  the  physiognomy  of  a  little  old 
man,  with  a  skin  as  yellow  as  if  his  own  Midas-hand 
had  transmuted  it.  He  had  a  low  forehead,  small, 
sharp  eyes,  puckered  about  with  innumerable  wrinkles, 
and  very  thin  lips,  which  he  made  still  thinner  by 
pressing  them  forcibly  together. 

"  The  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Face ! " 
shouted  the  people.  "  Sure  enough,  the  old  prophecy 
is  true;  and  here  we  have  the  great  man  come,  at 
last !  " 

And,  what  greatly  perplexed  Ernest,  they  seemed 
actually  to  believe  that  here  was  the  likeness  which 
they  spoke  of.  By  the  roadside  there  chanced  to  be 
an  old  beggar-woman  and  two  little  beggar-children, 
stragglers  from  some  far-off  region,  who,  as  the  car 
riage  rolled  onward,  held  out  their  hands  and  lifted 
up  their  doleful  voices,  most  piteously  beseeching 
charity.  A  yellow  claw  —  the  very  same  that  had 
clawed  together  so  much  wealth  —  poked  itself  out  of 
the  coach-window,  and  dropped  some  copper  coins 
upon  the  ground ;  so  that,  though  the  great  man's 
name  seems  to  have  been  Gathergold,  he  might  just 
as  suitably  have  been  nicknamed  Scattercopper.  Still, 
nevertheless,  with  an  earnest  shout,  and  evidently  with 
as  much  good  faith  as  ever,  the  people  bellowed,  — 

"  He  is  the  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Face !  " 

But  Ernest  turned  sadly  from  the  wrinkled  shrewd 
ness  of  that  sordid  visage,  and  gazed  up  the  valley, 
where,  amid  a  gathering  mist,  gilded  by  the  last  sun 
beams,  he  could  still  distinguish  those  glorious  features 
which  had  impressed  themselves  into  his  soul.  Their 
aspect  cheered  him.  What  did  the  benign  lips  seem 
to  say  ? 


100  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  He  will  come  !  Fear  not,  Ernest ;  the  man  will 
come ! " 

The  years  went  on,  and  Ernest  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 
He  had  grown  to  be  a  young  man  now.  He  attracted 
little  notice  from  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  valley ; 
for  they  saw  nothing  remarkable  in  his  way  of  life, 
save  that,  when  the  labor  of  the  day  was  over,  he  still 
loved  to  go  apart  and  gaze  and  meditate  upon  the 
Great  Stone  Face.  According  to  their  idea  of  the 
matter,  it  was  a  folly,  indeed,  but  pardonable,  inas 
much  as  Ernest  was  industrious,  kind,  and  neigh 
borly,  and  neglected  no  duty  for  the  sake  of  indulging 
this  idle  habit.  They  knew  not  that  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  become  a  teacher  to  him,  and  that  the  senti 
ment  which  was  expressed  in  it  would  enlarge  the 
young  man's  heart,  and  fill  it  with  wider  and  deeper 
sympathies  than  other  hearts.  They  knew  not  that 
thence  would  come  a  better  wisdom  than  could  be 
learned  from  books,  and  a  better  life  than  could  be 
moulded  on  the  defaced  example  of  other  human  lives. 
Neither  did  Ernest  know  that  the  thoughts  and  affec 
tions  which  came  to  him  so  naturally,  in  the  fields 
and  at  the  fireside,  and  wherever  he  communed  with 
himself,  were  of  a  higher  tone  than  those  which  all 
men  shared  with  him.  A  simple  soul,  —  simple  as 
when  his  mother  first  taught  him  the  old  prophecy,  — 
he  beheld  the  marvellous  features  beaming  adown  the 
valley,  and  still  wondered  that  their  human  counter 
part  was  so  long  in  making  his  appearance. 

By  this  time  poor  Mr.  Gathergold  was  dead  and 
buried ;  and  the  oddest  part  of  the  matter  was,  that 
his  wealth,  which  was  the  body  and  spirit  of  his  ex 
istence,  had  disappeared  before  his  death,  leaving 
nothing  of  him  but  a  living  skeleton,  covered  over 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  101 

with  a  wrinkled,  yellow  skin.  Since  the  melting  away 
of  his  gold,  it  had  been  very  generally  conceded  that 
there  was  no  such  striking  resemblance,  after  all,  be 
twixt  the  ignoble  features  of  the  ruined  merchant  and 
that  majestic  face  upon  the  mountain-side.  So  the 
people  ceased  to  honor  him  during  his  lifetime,  and 
quietly  consigned  him  to  forgetfulness  after  his  de 
cease.  Once  in  a  while,  it  is  true,  his  memory  was 
brought  up  in  connection  with  the  magnificent  palace 
which  he  had  built,  and  which  had  long  ago  been 
turned  into  a  hotel  for  the  accommodation  of  stran 
gers,  multitudes  of  whom  came  every  summer  to  visit 
that  famous  natural  curiosity,  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
Thus,  Mr.  Gathergold  being  discredited  and  thrown 
into  the  shade,  the  man  of  prophecy  was  yet  to  come. 
It  so  happened  that  a  native-born  son  of  the  val 
ley,  many  years  before,  had  enlisted  as  a  soldier,  and, 
after  a  great  deal  of  hard  fighting,  had  now  become  an 
illustrious  commander.  Whatever  he  may  be  called 
in  history,  he  was  known  in  camps  and  on  the  battle 
field  under  the  nickname  of  Old  Blood-and-Thunder. 
This  war-worn  veteran,  being  now  infirm  with  age  and 
wounds,  and  weary  of  the  turmoil  of  a  military  life, 
and  of  the  roll  of  the  drum  and  the  clangor  of  the 
trumpet,  that  had  so  long  been  ringing  in  his  ears, 
had  lately  signified  a  purpose  of  returning  to  his 
native  valley,  hoping  to  find  repose  where  he  remem 
bered  to  have  left  it.  The  inhabitants,  his  old  neigh 
bors  and  their  grown-up  children,  were  resolved  to 
welcome  the  renowned  warrior  with  a  salute  of  can 
non  and  a  public  dinner  ;  and  all  the  more  enthusias 
tically,  it  being  affirmed  that  now,  at  last,  the  likeness 
of  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  actually  appeared.  An 
aide-de-camp  of  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  travelling 


102  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

through  the  valley,  was  said  to  have  been  struck  with 
the  resemblance.  Moreover  the  schoolmates  and 
early  acquaintances  of  the  general  were  ready  to  testify, 
on  oath,  that  to  the  best  of  their  recollection,  the 
aforesaid  general  had  been  exceedingly  like  the  majes 
tic  image,  even  when  a  boy,  only  that  the  idea  had 
never  occurred  to  them  at  that  period.  Great,  there 
fore,  was  the  excitement  throughout  the  valley ;  and 
many  people,  who  had  never  once  thought  of  glancing 
at  the  Great  Stone  Face  for  years  before,  now  spent 
their  time  in  gazing  at  it,  for  the  sake  of  knowing 
exactly  how  General  Blood-and-Thunder  looked. 

On  the  day  of  the  great  festival,  Ernest,  with  all 
the  other  people  of  the  valley,  left  their  work,  and 
proceeded  to  the  spot  where  the  sylvan  banquet  was 
prepared.  As  he  approached,  the  loud  voice  of  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Battleblast  was  heard,  beseeching  a  blessing 
on  the  good  things  set  before  them,  and  on  the  dis 
tinguished  friend  of  peace  in  whose  honor  they  were 
assembled.  The  tables  were  arranged  in  a  cleared 
space  of  the  woods,  shut  in  by  the  surrounding  trees, 
except  where  a  vista  opened  eastward,  and  afforded 
a  distant  view  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Over  the 
general's  chair,  which  was  a  relic  from  the  home  of 
Washington,  there  was  an  arch  of  verdant  boughs, 
with  the  laurel  profusely  intermixed,  and  surmounted 
by  his  country's  banner,  beneath  which  he  had  won 
his  victories.  Our  friend  Ernest  raised  himself  on 
his  tip-toes,  in  hopes  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  celebrated 
guest ;  but  there  was  a  mighty  crowd  about  the  tables 
anxious  to  hear  the  toasts  and  speeches,  and  to  catch 
any  word  that  might  fall  from  the  general  in  reply  ; 
and  a  volunteer  company,  doing  duty  as  a  guard, 
pricked  ruthlessly  with  their  bayonets  at  any  particu- 


• 
THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  103 

larly  quiet  person  among  the  throng.  So  Ernest, 
being  of  an  unobtrusive  character,  was  thrust  quite 
into  the  background,  where  he  could  see  no  more  of 
Old  Blood-and-Thunder's  physiognomy  than  if  it  had 
been  still  blazing  on  the  battle-field.  To  console  him 
self,  he  turned  towards  the  Great  Stone  Face,  which, 
like  a  faithful  and  long-remembered  friend,  looked 
back  and  smiled  upon  him  through  the  vista  of  the 
forest.  Meantime,  however,  he  could  overhear  the 
remarks  of  various  individuals,  who  were  comparing 
the  features  of  the  hero  with  the  face  on  the  distant 
mountain-side. 

"  'T  is  the  same  face,  to  a  hair ! "  cried  one  man, 
cutting  a  caper  for  joy. 

"  Wonderfully  like,  that 's  a  fact  I  "  responded  an 
other. 

"  Like  !  why,  I  call  it  Old  Blood-and-Thunder  him 
self  in  a  monstrous  looking-glass ! "  cried  a  third. 
"  And  why  not  ?  He 's  the  greatest  man  of  this  or 
any  other  age,  beyond  a  doubt." 

And  then  all  three  of  the  speakers  gave  a  great 
shout,  which  communicated  electricity  to  the  crowd, 
and  called  forth  a  roar  from  a  thousand  voices,  that 
went  reverberating  for  miles  among  the  mountains, 
until  you  might  have  supposed  that  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  poured  its  thunder-breath  into  the  cry.  All 
these  comments,  and  this  vast  enthusiasm,  served  the 
more  to  interest  our  friend  ;  nor  did  he  think  of  ques" 
tioning  that  now,  at  length,  the  mountain-visage  had 
found  its  human  counterpart.  It  is  true,  Ernest  had 
imagined  that  this  long-looked-for  personage  would 
appear  in  the  character  of  a  man  of  peace,  uttering 
wisdom,  and  doing  good,  and  making  people  happy. 
But,  taking  an  habitual  breadth  of  view,  with  all  his 


104  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

simplicity,  he  contended  that  Providence  should  choose 
its  own  method  of  blessing  mankind,  and  could  con 
ceive  that  this  great  end  might  be  effected  even  by  a 
warrior  and  a  bloody  sword,  should  inscrutable  w'a- 
dom  see  fit  to  order  matters  so. 

"  The  general !   the   general !  "  was  now  the   ci 
u  Hush  !   silence  !     Old   Blood-and-Thunder  's       ing 
to  make  a  speech." 

Even  so  ;  for,  the  cloth  being  removed,  the  general's 
health  had  been  drunk  amid  shouts  of  applause,  and 
he  now  stood  upon  his  feet  to  thank  the  company. 
Ernest  saw  him.  There  he  was,  over  the  shoulders 
of  the  crowd,  from  the  two  glittering  epaulets  and 
embroidered  collar  upward,  beneath  the  arch  of  green 
boughs  with  intertwined  laurel,  and  the  banner  droop 
ing  as  if  to  shade  his  brow  !  And  there,  too,  visible 
in  the  same  glance,  through  the  vista  of  the  forest, 
appeared  the  Great  Stone  Face  !  And  was  there,  in 
deed,  such  a  resemblance  as  the  crowd  had  testified  ? 
Alas,  Ernest  could  not  recognize  it.  He  beheld  a 
war-worn  and  weather-beaten  countenance,  full  of  en 
ergy,  and  expressive  of  an  iron  will ;  but  the  gentle 
wisdom,  the  deep,  broad,  tender  sympathies,  were  al 
together  wanting  in  Old  Blood-and-Thunder's  visage ; 
and  even  if  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  assumed  his 
look  of  stern  command,  the  milder  traits  would  still 
have  tempered  it. 

"  This  is  not  the  man  of  prophecy,"  sighed  Ernest 
to  himself,  as  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  throng. 
"  And  must  the  world  wait  longer  yet  ?  " 

The  mists  had  congregated  about  the  distant  moun 
tain-side,  and  there  were  seen  the  grand  and  awful 
features  of  the  Great  Stone  Face,  awful  but  benignant, 
AS  if  a  mighty  angel  were  sitting  among  the  hills  and 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  105 

enrobing  himself  in  a  cloud-vesture  of  gold  and  pur 
ple.  As  he  looked,  Ernest  could  hardly  believe  but 
that  a  smile  beamed  over  the  whole  visage,  with  a 
radiance  still  brightening,  although  without  motion  of 
the  lips.  It  was  probably  the  effect  of  the  western 
rnshine,  melting  through  the  thinly  diffused  vapors 
wlat  had  swept  between  him  and  the  object  that  he 
gaz  at.  But  —  as  it  always  did  —  the  aspect  of  his 
marvellous  friend  made  Ernest  as  hopeful  as  if  he 
had  never  hoped  in  vain. 

"  Fear  not,  Ernest,"  said  his  heart,  even  as  if  the 
Great  Face  were  whispering  him,  —  "  fear  not,  Ernest; 
he  will  come." 

More  years  sped  swiftly  and  tranquilly  away. 
Ernest  still  dwelt  in  his  native  valley,  and  was  now 
a  man  of  middle  age.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  he 
had  become  known  among  the  people.  Now,  as  here 
tofore,  he  labored  for  his  bread,  and  was  the  same 
simple-hearted  man  that  he  had  always  been.  But  he 
had  thought  and  felt  so  much,  he  had  given  so  many 
of  the  best  hours  of  his  life  to  unworldly  hopes  for 
some  great  good  to  mankind,  that  it  seemed  as  though 
he  had  been  talking  with  the  angels,  and  had  imbibed 
a  portion  of  their  wisdom  unawares.  It  was  visible 
in  the  calm  and  well-considered  beneficence  of  his 
daily  life,  the  quiet  stream  of  which  had  made  a  wide 
green  margin  all  along  its  course.  Not  a  day  passed 
by  that  the  world  was  not  the  better  because  this  man, 
humble  as  he  was,  had  lived.  He  never  stepped  aside 
from  his  own  path,  yet  would  always  reach  a  blessing 
to  his  neighbor.  Almost  involuntarily,  too,  he  had 
become  a  preacher.  The  pure  and  high  simplicity  of 
his  thought,  which,  as  one  of  its  manifestations,  took 
shape  in  the  good  deeds  that  dropped  silently  from  his 


106  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

hand,  flowed  also  forth  in  speech.  He  uttered  truths 
that  wrought  upon  and  moulded  the  lives  of  those 
who  heard  him.  His  auditors,  it  may  be,  never  sus 
pected  that  Ernest,  their  own  neighbor  and  familiar 
friend,  was  more  than  an  ordinary  man ;  least  of  all 
did  Ernest  himself  suspect  it ;  but,  inevitably  as  the 
murmur  of  a  rivulet,  came  thoughts  out  of  his  mouth 
that  no  other  human  lips  had  spoken. 

When  the  people's  minds  had  had  a  little  time  to 
cool,  they  were  ready  enough  to  acknowledge  their 
mistake  in  imagining  a  similarity  between  Genera] 
Blood-and-Thunder's  truculent  physiognomy  and  the 
benign  visage  on  the  mountain-side.  But  now,  again, 
there  were  reports  and  many  paragraphs  in  the  news 
papers,  affirming  that  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  appeared  upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  a  cer 
tain  eminent  statesman.  He,  like  Mr.  Gathergold 
and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  was  a  native  of  the  val 
ley,  but  had  left  it  in  his  early  days,  and  taken  up  the 
trades  of  law  and  politics.  Instead  of  the  rich  man's 
wealth  and  the  warrior's  sword,  he  had  but  a  tongue, 
and  it  was  mightier  than  both  together.  So  wonder 
fully  eloquent  was  he,  that  whatever  he  might  choose 
to  say,  his  auditors  had  no  choice  but  to  believe  him  ; 
wrong  looked  like  right,  and  right  like  wrong ;  for 
when  it  pleased  him  he  could  make  a  kind  of  illu 
minated  fog  with  his  mere  breath,  and  obscure  the 
natural  daylight  with  it.  His  tongue,  indeed,  was  a 
magic  instrument ;  sometimes  it  rumbled  like  the 
thunder  ;  sometimes  it  warbled  like  the  sweetest  music. 
It  was  the  blast  of  war,  —  the  song  of  peace ;  and  it 
seemed  to  have  a  heart  in  it,  when  there  was  no 
such  matter.  In  good  truth,  he  was  a  wondrous  man  ; 
and  when  his  tongue  had  acquired  him  all  other  im- 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  107 

aginable  success,  —  when  it  had  been  heard  in  halls 
of  state,  and  in  the  courts  of  princes  and  potentates,  — 
after  it  had  made  him  known  all  over  the  world,  even 
as  a  voice  crying  from  shore  to  shore,  —  it  finally  per- 
suaded  his  countrymen  to  select  him  for  the  Presi 
dency.  Before  this  time,  —  indeed,  as  soon  as  he  be 
gan  to  grow  celebrated,  —  his  admirers  had  found  out 
the  resemblance  between  him  and  the  Great  Stone 
Face ;  and  so  much  were  they  struck  by  it  that  through 
out  the  country  this  distinguished  gentleman  was 
known  by  the  name  of  Old  Stony  Phiz.  The  phrase 
was  considered  as  giving  a  highly  favorable  aspect  to 
his  political  prospects  ;  for,  as  is  likewise  the  case  with 
the  Popedom,  nobody  ever  becomes  President  without 
taking  a  name  other  than  his  own. 

While  his  friends  were  doing  their  best  to  make 
him  President,  Old  Stony  Phiz,  as  he  was  called,  set 
out  on  a  visit  to  the  valley  where  he  was  born.  Of 
course,  he  had  no  other  object  than  to  shake  hands 
with  his  fellow-citizens,  and  neither  thought  nor  cared 
about  any  effect  which  his  progress  through  the  country 
might  have  upon  the  election.  Magnificent  prepara 
tions  were  made  to  receive  the  illustrious  statesman  ; 
a  cavalcade  of  horsemen  set  forth  to  meet  him  at  the 
boundary  line  of  the  State,  and  all  the  people  left  their 
business  and  gathered  along  the  wayside  to  see  him 
pass.  Among  these  was  Ernest.  Though  more  than 
once  disappointed,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  such  a 
hopeful  and  confiding  nature,  that  he  was  always 
ready  to  believe  in  whatever  seemed  beautiful  and 
good.  He  kept  his  heart  continually  open,  and  thus 
was  sure  to  catch  the  blessing  from  on  high,  when  it 
should  come.  So  now  again,  as  buoyantly  as  ever,  he 
went  forth  to  behold  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face. 


108  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

The  cavalcade  came  prancing  along  the  road,  with 
a  great  clattering  of  hoofs  and  a  mighty  cloud  of  dust, 
which  rose  up  so  dense  and  high  that  the  visage  of 
the  mountain-side  was  completely  hidden  from  Er 
nest's  eyes.  All  the  great  men  of  the  neighborhood 
were  there  on  horseback ;  militia  officers,  in  uniform ; 
the  member  of  Congress ;  the  sheriff  of  the  county ; 
the  editors  of  newspapers ;  and  many  a  farmer,  too, 
had  mounted  his  patient  steed,  with  his  Sunday  coat 
upon  his  back.  It  really  was  a  very  brilliant  specta 
cle,  especially  as  there  were  numerous  banners  flaunt 
ing  over  the  cavalcade,  on  some  of  which  were  gor 
geous  portraits  of  the  illustrious  statesman  and  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  smiling  familiarly  at  one  another, 
like  two  brothers.  If  the  pictures  were  to  be  trusted, 
the  mutual  resemblance,  it  must  be  confessed,  was 
marvellous.  We  must  not  forget  to  mention  that 
there  was  a  band  of  music,  which  made  the  echoes  of 
the  mountains  ring  and  reverberate  with  the  loud 
triumph  of  its  strains ;  so  that  airy  and  soul-thrilling 
melodies  broke  out  among  all  the  heights  and  hollows, 
as  if  every  nook  of  his  native  valley  had  found  a  voice 
to  welcome  the  distinguished  guest.  But  the  grandest 
effect  was  when  the  far-off  mountain  precipice  flung 
back  the  music ;  for  then  the  Great  Stone  Face  it 
self  seemed  to  be  swelling  the  triumphant  chorus,  in 
acknowledgment  that,  at  length,  the  man  of  prophecy 
was  come. 

All  this  while  the  people  were  throwing  up  their 
hats  and  shouting,  with  enthusiasm  so  contagious  that 
the  heart  of  Ernest  kindled  up,  and  he  likewise 
threw  up  his  hat,  and  shouted,  as  loudly  as  the  loud 
est,  "  Huzza  for  the  great  man !  Huzza  for  Old 
Stony  Phiz !  "  But  as  yet  he  had  not  seen  him. 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  109 

"  Here  he  is  now !  "  cried  those  who  stood  near 
Ernest.  "There!  There!  Look  at  Old  Stony  Phiz 
and  then  at  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  and  see  if 
they  are  not  as  like  as  two  twin-brothers  !  " 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  gallant  array,  came  an  open 
barouche,  drawn  by  four  white  horses;  and  in  the 
barouche,  with  his  massive  head  uncovered,  sat  the 
illustrious  statesman,  Old  Stony  Phiz  himself. 

"  Confess  it,"  said  one  of  Ernest's  neighbors  to 
him,  "the  Great  Stone  Face  has  met  its  match  at 
last!" 

Now,  it  must  be  owned  that,  at  his  first  glimpse  of 
the  countenance  which  was  bowing  and  smiling  from 
the  barouche,  Ernest  did  fancy  that  there  was  a 
resemblance  between  it  and  the  old  familiar  face  upon 
the  mountain-side.  The  brow,  with  its  massive  depth 
and  loftiness,  and  all  the  other  features,  indeed,  were 
boldly  and  strongly  hewn,  as  if  in  emulation  of  a  more 
than  heroic,  of  a  Titanic  model.  But  the  sublimity 
and  stateliness,  the  grand  expression  of  a  divine  sym 
pathy,  that  illuminated  the  mountain  visage,  and  ethe- 
realized  its  ponderous  granite  substance  into  spirit, 
might  here  be  sought  in  vain.  Something  had  been 
originally  left  out,  or  had  departed.  And  therefore 
the  marvellously  gifted  statesman  had  always  a  weary 
gloom  in  the  deep  caverns  of  his  eyes,  as  of  a  child 
that  has  outgrown  its  playthings,  or  a  man  of  mighty 
faculties  and  little  aims,  whose  life,  with  all  its  high 
performances,  was  vague  and  empty,  because  no  higb 
purpose  had  endowed  it  with  reality. 

Still  Ernest's  neighbor  was  thrusting  his  elbow  intc 
his  side,  and  pressing  him  for  an  answer. 

"  Confess !  confess !  Is  not  he  the  very  picture  of 
your  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain?  " 


110  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  No ! "  said  Ernest,  bluntly,  "  I  see  little  or  no 
likeness." 

"Then  so  much  the  worse  for  the  Great  Stone 
Face !  "  answered  his  neighbor ;  and  again  he  set  up  a 
shout  for  Old  Stony  Phiz. 

But  Ernest  turned  away,  melancholy,  and  almost 
despondent;  for  this  was  the  saddest  of  his  disap 
pointments,  to  behold  a  man  who  might  have  fulfilled 
the  prophecy,  and  had  not  willed  to  do  so.  Mean 
time,  the  cavalcade,  the  banners,  the  music,  the  ba 
rouches  swept  past  him,  with  the  vociferous  crowd  in 
the  rear,  leaving  the  dust  to  settle  down,  and  the 
Great  Stone  Face  to  be  revealed  again,  with  the  gran 
deur  that  it  had  worn  for  untold  centuries. 

"  Lo,  here  I  am,  Ernest !  "  the  benign  lips  seemed 
to  say.  "  I  have  waited  longer  than  thou,  and  am  not 
yet  weary.  Fear  not ;  the  man  will  come." 

The  years  hurried  onward,  treading  in  their  haste 
on  one  another's  heels.  And  now  they  began  to  bring 
white  hairs,  and  scatter  them  over  the  head  of  Ernest ; 
they  made  reverend  wrinkles  across  his  forehead,  and 
furrows  in  his  cheeks.  He  was  an  aged  man.  But 
not  in  vain  had  he  grown  old  :  more  than  the  white 
hairs  on  his  head  were  the  sage  thoughts  in  his  mind  ; 
his  wrinkles  and  furrows  were  inscriptions  that  Time 
had  graved,  and  in  which  he  had  written  legends  of 
wisdom  that  had  been  tested  by  the  tenor  of  a  life. 
And  Ernest  had  ceased  to  be  obscure.  Unsought  for, 
undesired,  had  come  the  fame  which  so  many  seek, 
and  made  him  known  in  the  great  world,  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  valley  in  which  he  had  dwelt  so  quietly. 
College  professors,  and  even  the  active  men  of  cities, 
came  from  far  to  see  and  converse  with  Ernest ;  for 
the  report  had  gone  abroad  that  this  simple  husband- 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  Ill 

man  had  ideas  unlike  those  of  other  men,  not  gained 
from  books,  but  of  a  higher  tone,  —  a  tranquil  and 
familiar  majesty,  as  if  he  had  been  talking  with  the 
angels  as  his  daily  friends.  Whether  it  were  sage, 
statesman,  or  philanthropist,  Ernest  received  these 
visitors  with  the  gentle  sincerity  that  had  character 
ized  him  from  boyhood,  and  spoke  freely  with  them  of 
whatever  came  uppermost,  or  lay  deepest  in  his  heart 
or  their  own.  While  they  talked  together  his  face 
would  kindle,  unawares,  and  shine  upon  them,  as  with 
a  mild  evening  light.  .Pensive  with  the  fulness  of 
such  discourse,  his  guests  took  leave  and  went  their 
way  ;  and  passing  up  the  valley,  paused  to  look  at  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  imagining  that  they  had  seen  its 
likeness  in  a  human  countenance,  but  could  not 
remember  where. 

While  Ernest  had  been  growing  up  and  growing 
old,  a  bountiful  Providence  had  granted  a  new  poet  to 
this  earth.  He,  likewise,  was  a  native  of  the  valley, 
but  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  at  a  distance 
from  that  romantic  region,  pouring  out  his  sweet 
music  amid  the  bustle  and  din  of  cities.  Often,  how 
ever,  did  the  mountains  which  had  been  familiar  to 
him  in  his  childhood  lift  their  snowy  peaks  into  the 
clear  atmosphere  of  his  poetry.  Neither  was  the 
Great  Stone  Face  forgotten,  for  the  poet  had  cele 
brated  it  in  an  ode  which  was  grand  enough  to  have 
been  uttered  by  its  own  majestic  lips.  The  man  of 
genius,  we  may  say,  had  come  down  from  heaven  with 
wonderful  endowments.  If  he  sang  of  a  mountain, 
the  eyes  of  all  mankind  beheld  a  mightier  grandeur 
reposing  on  its  breast,  or  soaring  to  its  summit,  than 
had  before  been  seen  there.  If  his  theme  were  a 
lovely  lake,  a  celestial  smile  had  now  been  thrown  over 


112  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

it,  to  gleam  forever  on  its  surface.  If  it  were  the  vast 
old  sea,  even  the  deep  immensity  of  its  dread  bosom 
seemed  to  swell  the  higher,  as  if  moved  by  the  emo 
tions  of  the  song.  Thus  the  world  assumed  another 
and  a  better  aspect  from  the  hour  that  the  poet  blessed 
it  with  his  happy  eyes.  The  Creator  had  bestowed 
him,  as  the  last  best  touch  to  his  own  handiwork. 
Creation  was  not  finished  till  the  poet  came  to  inter 
pret,  and  so  complete  it. 

The  effect  was  no  less  high  and  beautiful  when  his 
human  brethren  were  the  subject  of  his  verse.  The 
man  or  woman,  sordid  with  the  common  dust  of  life, 
who  crossed  his  daily  path,  and  the  little  child  who 
played  in  it,  were  glorified  if  he  beheld  them  in  his 
mood  of  poetic  faith.  He  showed  the  golden  links  of 
the  great  chain  that  intertwined  them  with  an  angelic 
kindred ;  he  brought  out  the  hidden  traits  of  a  celes 
tial  birth  that  made  them  worthy  of  such  kin.  Some, 
indeed,  there  were,  who  thought  to  show  the  soundness 
of  their  judgment  by  affirming  that  all  the  beauty  and 
dignity  of  the  natural  world  existed  only  in  the  poet's 
fancy.  Let  such  men  speak  for  themselves,  who  un 
doubtedly  appear  to  have  been  spawned  forth  by  Nature 
with  a  contemptuous  bitterness ;  she  having  plastered 
them  up  out  of  her  refuse  stuff,  after  all  the  swine  were 
made.  As  respects  all  things  else,  the  poet's  ideal  was 
the  truest  truth. 

The  songs  of  this  poet  found  their  way  to  Ernest. 
He  read  them  after  his  customary  toil,  seated  on  the 
bench  before  his  cottage  door,  where  for  such  a  length 
of  time  he  had  filled  his  repose  with  thought,  by  gazing 
at  the  Great  Stone  Face.  And  now  as  he  read  stanzas 
that  caused  the  soul  to  thrill  within  him,  he  lifted  his 
eyes  to  the  vast  countenance  beaming  on  him  so  benig- 
nantly. 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  118 

"  O  majestic  friend,"  he  murmured,  addressing  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  "  is  not  this  man  worthy  to  resem 
ble  thee?" 

The  Face  seemed  to  smile,  but  answered  not  a  word. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  poet,  though  he  dwelt  so 
far  away,  had  not  only  heard  of  Ernest,  but  had  med 
itated  much  upon  his  character,  until  he  deemed  no 
thing  so  desirable  as  to  meet  this  man,  whose  untaught 
wisdom  walked  hand  in  hand  with  the  noble  simplicity 
of  his  life.  One  summer  morning,  therefore,  he  took 
passage  by  the  railroad,  and,  in  the  decline  of  the 
afternoon,  alighted  from  the  cars  at  no  great  distance 
from  Ernest's  cottage.  The  great  hotel,  which  had 
formerly  been  the  palace  of  Mr.  Gathergold,  was  close 
at  hand,  but  the  poet,  with  his  carpet-bag  on  his  arm, 
inquired  at  once  where  Ernest  dwelt,  and  was  resolved 
to  be  accepted  as  his  guest. 

Approaching  the  door,  he  there  found  the  good  old 
man,  holding  a  volume  in  his  hand,  which  alternately 
he  read,  and  then,  with  a  finger  between  the  leaves, 
looked  lovingly  at  the  Great  Stone  Face. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  the  poet.  "  Can  you  give  a 
traveller  a  night's  lodging  ?  " 

"  Willingly,"  answered  Ernest ;  and  then  he  added, 
smiling,  "  niethinks  I  never  saw  the  Great  Stone  Face 
look  so  hospitably  at  a  stranger." 

The  poet  sat  down  on  the  bench  beside  him,  and  he 
and  Ernest  talked  together.  Often  had  the  poet  held 
intercourse  with  the  wittiest  and  the  wisest,  but  never 
before  with  a  man  like  Ernest,  whose  thoughts  and 
feelings  gushed  up  with  such  a  natural  freedom,  and 
who  made  great  truths  so  familiar  by  his  simple  utter 
ance  of  them.  Angels,  as  had  been  so  often  said, 
seemed  to  have  wrought  with  him  at  his  labor  in  the 


114  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

fields  ;  angels  seemed  to  have  sat  with  him  by  the  fire 
side  ;  and,  dwelling  with  angels  as  friend  with  friends, 
he  had  imbibed  the  sublimity  of  their  ideas,  and  im 
bued  it  with  the  sweet  and  lowly  charm  of  household 
words.  So  thought  the  poet.  And  Ernest,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  moved  and  agitated  by  the  living 
images  which  the  poet  flung  out  of  his  mind,  and 
which  peopled  all  the  air  about  the  cottage  door  with 
shapes  of  beauty,  both  gay  and  pensive.  The  sym 
pathies  of  these  two  men  instructed  them  with  a  pro- 
founder  sense  than  either  could  have  attained  alone. 
Their  minds  accorded  into  one  strain,  and  made  delight 
ful  music  which  neither  of  them  could  have  claimed 
as  all  his  own,  nor  distinguished  his  own  share  from 
the  other's.  They  led  one  another,  as  it  were,  into  a 
high  pavilion  of  their  thoughts,  so  remote,  and  hitherto 
so  dim,  that  they  had  never  entered  it  before,  and  so 
beautiful  that  they  desired  to  be  there  always. 

As  Ernest  listened  to  the  poet,  he  imagined  that  the 
Great  Stone  Face  was  bending  forward  to  listen  too. 
He  gazed  earnestly  into  the  poet's  glowing  eyes. 

"  Who  are  you,  my  strangely  gifted  guest  ?  "  he  said. 

The  poet  laid  his  finger  on  the  volume  that  Ernest 
had  been  reading. 

"You  have  read  these  poems,"  said  he.  "You 
know  me,  then,  —  for  I  wrote  them." 

Again,  and  still  more  earnestly  than  before.  Ernest 
examined  the  poet's  features ;  then  turned  towards  the 
Great  Stone  Face ;  then  back,  with  an  uncertain  as 
pect,  to  his  guest.  But  his  countenance  fell;  he 
shook  his  head,  and  sighed. 

"  Wherefore  are  you  sad  ?  "  inquired  the  poet. 

"Because,"  replied  Ernest,  "all  through  life  I 
have  awaited  the  fulfilment  of  a  prophecy ;  and,  when 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.       115 

I  fead  these  poems,  I  hoped  that  it  might  be  fulfilled 
in  you." 

"  You  hoped,"  answered  the  poet,  faintly  smiling, 
"  to  find  in  me  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
And  you  are  disappointed,  as  formerly  with  Mr.  Gath- 
ergold,  and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  and  Old  Stony 
Phiz.  Yes,  Ernest,  it  is  my  doom.  You  must  add 
my  name  to  the  illustrious  three,  and  record  another 
failure  of  your  hopes.  For  —  in  shame  and  sadness 
do  I  speak  it,  Ernest  —  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  typi 
fied  by  yonder  benign  and  majestic  image." 

"And  why?"  asked  Ernest.  He  pointed  to  the 
volume.  "  Are  not  those  thoughts  divine  ?  " 

^  They  have  a  strain  of  the  Divinity,"  replied  the 
poet.  "  You  can  hear  in  them  the  far-off  echo  of  a 
heavenly  song.  But  my  life,  dear  Ernest,  has  not 
corresponded  with  my  thought.  I  have  had  grand 
dreams,  but  they  have  been  only  dreams,  because  I 
have  lived  —  and  that,  too,  by  my  own  choice  — 
among  poor  and  mean  realities.  Sometimes  even  — 
shall  I  dare  to  say  it  ?  —  I  lack  faith  in  the  grandeur, 
the  beauty,  and  the  goodness,  which  my  own  works 
are  said  to  have  made  more  evident  in  nature  and  in 
human  life.  Why,  then,  pure  seeker  of  the  good  and 
true,  shouldst  thou  hope  to  find  me  in  yonder  image 
of  the  divine  ?  " 

The  poet  spoke  sadly,  and  his  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears.  So,  likewise,  were  those  of  Ernest. 

At  the  hour  of  sunset,  as  had  long  been  his  frequent 
custom,  Ernest  was  to  discourse  to  an  assemblage  of 
the  neighboring  inhabitants  in  the  open  air.  He  and 
the  poet,  arm  in  arm,  still  talking  together  as  they 
went  along,  proceeded  to  the  spot.  It  was  a  small 
nook  among  the  hills,  with  a  gray  precipice  behind, 


116  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

the  stern  front  of  which  was  relieved  by  the  pleasant 
foliage  of  many  creeping  plants,  that  made  a  tapestry 
for  the  naked  rock,  by  hanging  their  festoons  from 
all  its  rugged  angles.  At  a  small  elevation  above  the 
ground,  set  in  a  rich  framework  of  verdure,  there 
appeared  a  niche,  spacious  enough  to  admit  a  hu 
man  figure,  with  freedom  for  such  gestures  as  sponta 
neously  accompany  earnest  thought  and  genuine  emo 
tion.  Into  this  natural  pulpit  Ernest  ascended,  and 
threw  a  look  of  familiar  kindness  around  upon  his 
audience.  They  stood,  or  sat,  or  reclined  upon  the 
grass,  as  seemed  good  to  each,  with  the  departing 
sunshine  falling  obliquely  over  them,  and  mingling 
its  subdued  cheerfulness  with  the  solemnity  of  a  grove 
of  ancient  trees,  beneath  and  amid  the  boughs  of 
which  the  golden  rays  were  constrained  to  pass.  In 
another  direction  was  seen  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with 
the  same  cheer,  combined  with  the  same  solemnity,  in 
its  benignant  aspect. 

Ernest  began  to  speak,  giving  to  the  people  of  what 
was  in  his  heart  and  mind.  His  words  had  power, 
because  they  accorded  with  his  thoughts;  and  his 
thoughts  had  reality  and  depth,  because  they  harmo 
nized  with  the  life  which  he  had  always  lived.  It  was 
not  mere  breath  that  this  preacher  uttered  ;  they  were 
the  words  of  life,  because  a  life  of  good  deeds  and 
holy  love  was  melted  into  them.  Pearls,  pure  and  rich, 
had  been  dissolved  into  this  precious  draught.  The 
poet,  as  he  listened,  felt  that  the  being  and  character 
of  Ernest  were  a  nobler  strain  of  poetry  than  he  had 
ever  written.  His  eyes  glistening  with  tears,  he  gazed 
reverentially  at  the  venerable  man,  and  said  within 
himself  that  never  was  there  an  aspect  so  worthy  of  a 
prophet  and  a  sage  as  that  mild,  sweet,  thoughtful 


MY   VISIT  TO  NIAGARA.  117 

countenance,  with  the  glory  of  white  hair  diffused 
about  it.  At  a  distance,  but  distinctly  to  be  seen, 
high  up  in  the  golden  light  of  the  setting  sun,  ap 
peared  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with  hoary  mists  around 
it,  like  the  white  hairs  around  the  brow  of  Ernest.  Its 
look  of  grand  beneficence  seemed  to  embrace  the  world. 

At  that  moment,  in  sympathy  with  a  thought  which 
he  was  about  to  utter,  the  face  of  Ernest  assumed  a 
grandeur  of  expression,  so  imbued  with  benevolence, 
that  the  poet,1  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  threw  his 
arms  aloft,  and  shouted,  — 

"Behold!  Behold!  Ernest  is  himself  the  like 
ness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face  !  " 

Then  all  the  people  looked  and  saw  that  what  the 
deep-sighted  poet  said  was  true.  The  prophecy  was 
fulfilled.  But  Ernest,  having  finished  what  he  had 
to  say,  took  the  poet's  arm,  and  walked  slowly  home 
ward,  still  hoping  that  some  wiser  and  better  man 
than  himself  would  by  and  by  appear,  bearing  a  re 
semblance  to  the  GREAT  STONE  FACE. 


MY  VISIT  TO  NIAGARA. 

NEVER  did  a  pilgrim  approach  Niagara  with  deeper 
enthusiasm  than  mine.  I  had  lingered  away  from  it, 
and  wandered  to  other  scenes,  because  my  treasury  of 
anticipated  enjoyments,  comprising  all  the  wonders  of 

1  That  the  poet  should  have  been  the  one  to  discover  the  re 
semblance  accords  with  the  conception  of  the  poet  himself  in 
this  little  apologue.  Poetic  insight  is  still  separable  from  integ 
rity  of  character,  and  it  was  quite  possible  for  this  poet  to  see 
the  ideal  beauty  in  another,  while  conscious  of  his  own  defect. 
The  humility  of  Ernest,  as  the  last  word  of  the  story,  completes 
the  certainty  of  the  likeness. 


118  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

the  world,  had  nothing  else  so  magnificent,  and  I  waa 
loath  to  exchange  the  pleasures  of  hope  for  those  of 
memory  so  soon.  At  length  the  day  came.  The 
stage-coach,  with  a  Frenchman  and  myself  on  the 
back  seat,  had  already  left  Lewiston,  and  in  less  than 
an  hour  would  set  us  down  in  Manchester.  I  began 
to  listen  for  the  roar  of  the  cataract,  and  trembled 
with  a  sensation  like  dread,  as  the  moment  drew  nigh, 
when  its  voice  of  ages  must  roll,  for  the  first  time,  on 
my  ear.  The  French  gentleman  stretched  himself 
from  the  window,  and  expressed  loud  admiration, 
while,  by  a  sudden  impulse,  I  threw  myself  back  and 
closed  my  eyes.  When  the  scene  shut  in,  I  was  glad 
to  think,  that  for  me  the  whole  burst  of  Niagara  was 
yet  in  futurity.  We  rolled  on,  and  entered  the  village 
of  Manchester,  bordering  on  the  falls. 

I  am  quite  ashamed  of  myself  here.  Not  that  I 
ran  like  a  madman  to  the  falls,  and  plunged  into  the 
thickest  of  the  spray,  —  never  stopping  to  breathe,  till 
breathing  was  impossible  ;  not  that  I  committed  this, 
or  any  other  suitable  extravagance.  On  the  contrary, 
I  alighted  with  perfect  decency  and  composure,  gave 
my  cloak  to  the  black  waiter,  pointed  out  my  baggage, 
and  inquired,  not  the  nearest  way  to  the  cataract,  but 
about  the  dinner-hour.  The  interval  was  spent  in 
arranging  my  dress.  Within  the  last  fifteen  minutes, 
my  mind  had  grown  strangely  benumbed,  and  my 
spirits  apathetic,  with  a  slight  depression,  not  decided 
enough  to  be  termed  sadness.  My  enthusiasm  was  in 
a  deathlike  slumber.  Without  aspiring  to  immortal 
ity,  as  he  did,  I  could  have  imitated  that  English  trav 
eller,  who  turned  back  from  the  point  where  he  first 
heard  the  thunder  of  Niagara,  after  crossing  the  ocean 
to  behold  it.  Many  a  Western  trader,  by  the  by,  has 


MY   VISIT  TO  NIAGARA.  119 

performed  a  similar  act  of  heroism  with  more  heroic 
simplicity,  deeming  it  no  such  wonderful  feat  to  dine 
at  the  hotel  and  resume  his  route  to  Buffalo  or  Lewis- 
ton,  while  the  cataract  was  roaring  unseen. 

Such  has  often  been  my  apathy,  when  objects,  long 
sought,  and  earnestly  desired,  were  placed  within  my 
reach.  After  dinner  —  at  which  an  unwonted  and 
perverse  epicurism  detained  me  longer  than  usual  —  I 
lighted  a  cigar  and  paced  the  piazza,  minutely  atten 
tive  to  the  aspect  and  business  of  a  very  ordinary  vil 
lage.  Finally,  with  reluctant  step,  and  the  feeling  of 
an  intruder,  I  walked  towards  Goat  Island.  At  the 
toll-house,  there  were  farther  excuses  for  delaying  the 
inevitable  moment.  My  signature  was  required  in  a 
huge  ledger,  containing  similar  records  innumerable, 
many  of  which  I  read.  The  skin  of  a  great  stur 
geon,  and  other  fishes,  beasts,  and  reptiles ;  a  collec 
tion  of  minerals,  such  as  lie  in  heaps  near  the  falls ; 
some  Indian  moccasons,  and  other  trifles,  made  of 
deer-skin  and  embroidered  with  beads  ;  several  news 
papers,  from  Montreal,  New  York,  and  Boston,  —  all 
attracted  me  in  turn.  Out  of  a  number  of  twisted 
sticks,  the  manufacture  of  a  Tuscarora  Indian,  I 
selected  one  of  curled  maple,  curiously  convoluted, 
and  adorned  with  the  carved  images  of  a  snake  and  a 
fish.  Using  this  as  my  pilgrim's  staff,  I  crossed  the 
bridge.  Above  and  below  me  were  the  rapids,  a  river 
of  impetuous  snow,  with  here  and  there  a  dark  rock 
amid  its  whiteness,  resisting  all  the  physical  fury,  as 
any  cold  spirit  did  the  moral  influences  of  the  scene. 
On  reaching  Goat  Island,  which  separates  the  two 
great  segments  of  the  falls,  I  chose  the  right-hand 
path,  and  followed  it  to  the  edge  of  the  American  cas 
cade.  There,  while  the  falling  sheet  was  yet  invisible, 


120  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

1  saw  the  vapor  that  never  vanishes,  and  the  Eternal 
Rainbow  of  Niagara. 

It  was  an  afternoon  of  glorious  sunshine,  without  a 
cloud,  save  those  of  the  cataracts.  I  gained  an  insu 
lated  rock,  and  beheld  a  broad  sheet  of  brilliant  and 
unbroken  foam,  not  shooting  in  a  curved  line  from  the 
top  of  the  precipice,  but  falling  headlong  down  from 
height  to  depth.  A  narrow  stream  diverged  from  the 
main  branch,  and  hurried  over  the  crag  by  a  channel 
of  its  own,  leaving  a  little  pine-clad  island  and  a 
streak  of  precipice  between  itself  and  the  larger  sheet. 
Below  arose  the  mist,  on  which  was  painted  a  dazzling 
sunbow  with  two  concentric  shadows,  —  one,  almost 
as  perfect  as  the  original  brightness ;  and  the  other, 
drawn  faintly  round  the  broken  edge  of  the  cloud. 

Still  I  had  not  half  seen  Niagara.  Following  the 
verge  of  the  island,  the  path  led  me  to  the  Horseshoe, 
where  the  real,  broad  St.  Lawrence,  rushing  along  on 
a  level  with  its  banks,  pours  its  whole  breadth  over  a 
concave  line  of  precipice,  and  thence  pursues  its  course 
between  lofty  crags  towards  Ontario.  A  sort  of 
bridge,  two  or  three  feet  wide,  stretches  out  along  the 
edge  of  the  descending  sheet,  and  hangs  upon  the  ris 
ing  mist,  as  if  that  were  the  foundation  of  the  frail 
structure.  Here  I  stationed  myself  in  the  blast  of 
wind,  which  the  rushing  river  bore  along  with  it.  The 
bridge  was  tremulous  beneath  me,  and  marked  the 
tremor  of  the  solid  earth.  I  looked  along  the  whiten 
ing  rapids,  and  endeavored  to  distinguish  a  mass  of 
water  far  above  the  falls,  to  follow  it  to  their  verge, 
and  go  down  with  it,  in  fancy,  to  the  abyss  of  clouds 
and  storm.  Casting  my  eyes  across  the  river,  and 
every  side,  I  took  in  the  whole  scene  at  a  glance,  and 
tried  to  comprehend  it  in  one  vast  idea.  After  an 


MY  VISIT  TO  NIAGARA.  121 

hour  thus  spent,  I  left  the  bridge,  and  by  a  staircase, 
winding  almost  interminably  round  a  post,  descended 
to  the  base  of  the  precipice.  From  that  point,  my 
path  lay  over  slippery  stones,  and  among  great  frag 
ments  of  the  cliff,  to  the  edge  of  the  cataract,  where 
the  wind  at  once  enveloped  me  in  spray,  and  perhaps 
dashed  the  rainbow  round  me.  Were  my  long  desires 
fulfilled?  And  had  I  seen  Niagara? 

Oh  that  I  had  never  heard  of  Niagara  till  I  beheld 
it  I  Blessed  were  the  wanderers  of  old,  who  heard  its 
deep  roar,  sounding  through  the  woods,  as  the  sum 
mons  to  an  unknown  wonder,  and  approached  its  awful 
brink,  in  all  the  freshness  of  native  feeling.  Had  its 
own  mysterious  voice  been  the  first  to  warn  me  of  its 
existence,  then,  indeed,  I  might  have  knelt  down  and 
worshipped.  But  I  had  come  thither,  haunted  with  a 
vision  of  foam  and  fury,  and  dizzy  cliffs,  and  an  ocean 
tumbling  down  out  of  the  sky,  —  a  scene,  in  short, 
which  nature  had  too  much  good  taste  and  calm  sim 
plicity  to  realize.  My  mind  had  struggled  to  adapt 
these  false  conceptions  to  the  reality,  and  finding 
the  effort  vain,  a  wretched  sense  of  disappointment 
weighed  me  down.  I  climbed  the  precipice,  and 
threw  myself  on  the  earth,  feeling  that  I  was  un 
worthy  to  look  at  the  Great  Falls,  and  careless  about 
beholding  them  again.  .  .  . 

All  that  night,  as  there  has  been  and  will  be  for 
ages  past  and  to  come,  a  rushing  sound  was  heard,  as 
if  a  great  tempest  were  sweeping  through  the  air.  It 
mingled  with  my  dreams,  and  made  them  full  of  storm 
and  whirlwind.  Whenever  I  awoke,  and  heard  this 
dread  sound  in  the  air,  and  the  windows  rattling  as 
with  a  mighty  blast,  I  could  not  rest  again,  till  look 
ing  forth,  I  saw  how  bright  the  stars  were,  and  that 


122  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

every  leaf  in  the  garden  was  motionless.  Never  was  a 
Slimmer  night  more  calm  to  the  eye,  nor  a  gale  of  au 
tumn  louder  to  the  ear.  The  rushing  sound  proceeds 
from  the  rapids,  and  the  rattling  of  the  casements  is 
but  an  effect  of  the  vibration  of  the  whole  house, 
shaken  by  the  jar  of  the  cataract.  The  noise  of  the 
rapids  draws  the  attention  from  the  true  voice  of 
Niagara,  which  is  a  dull,  muffled  thunder,  resounding 
between  the  cliffs.  I  spent  a  wakeful  hour  at  mid 
night,  in  distinguishing  its  reverberations,  and  rejoiced 
to  find  that  my  former  awe  and  enthusiasm  were  reviv 
ing. 

Gradually,  and  after  much  contemplation,  I  came  to 
know,  by  my  own  feelings,  that  Niagara  is  indeed  a 
wonder  of  the  world,  and  not  the  less  wonderful,  be 
cause  time  and  thought  must  be  employed  in  compre 
hending  it.  Casting  aside  all  preconceived  notions, 
and  preparation  to  be  dire-struck  or  delighted,  the 
beholder  must  stand  beside  it  in  the  simplicity  of  his 
heart,  suffering  the  mighty  scene  to  work  its  own  im 
pression.  Night  after  night,  I  dreamed  of  it,  and  was. 
gladdened  every  morning  by  the  consciousness  of  a 
growing  capacity  to  enjoy  it.  Yet  I  will  not  pretend 
to  the  all-absorbing  enthusiasm  of  some  more  fortunate 
spectators,  nor  deny  that  very  trifling  causes  would 
draw  my  eyes  and  thoughts  from  the  cataract. 

The  last  day  that  I  was  to  spend  at  Niagara,  before 
my  departure  for  the  Far  West,  I  sat  upon  the  Table 
Bock.  This  celebrated  station  did  not  now,  as  of  old, 
project  fifty  feet  beyond  the  line  of  the  precipice,  but 
was  shattered  by  the  fall  of  an  immense  fragment, 
which  lay  distant  on  the  shore  below.  Still,  on  the 
utmost  verge  of  the  rock,  with  my  feet  hanging  over 
it,  I  felt  as  if  suspended  in  the  open  air.  Never  be* 


MY  VISIT  TO  NIAGARA.  123 

fore  had  my  mind  been  in  such  perfect  unison  with 
the  scene.  There  were  intervals,  when  I  was  con 
scious  of  nothing  but  the  great  river,  rolling  calmly 
into  the  abyss,  rather  descending  than  precipitating 
itself,  and  acquiring  tenfold  majesty  from  its  unhur 
ried  motion.  It  came  like  the  march  of  Destiny.  It 
was  not  taken  by  surprise,  but  seemed  to  have  antic 
ipated,  in  all  its  course  through  the  broad  lakes,  that 
it  must  pour  their  collected  waters  down  this  height. 
The  perfect  foam  of  the  river,  after  its  descent,  and 
the  ever-varying  shapes  of  mist,  rising  up,  to  become 
clouds  in  the  sky,  would  be  the  very  picture  of  con 
fusion,  were  it  merely  transient,  like  the  rage  of  a 
tempest.  But  when  the  beholder  has  stood  aw.hile, 
and  perceives  no  lull  in  the  storm,  and  considers  that 
the  vapor  and  the  foam  are  as  everlasting  as  the  rocks 
which  produce  them,  all  this  turmoil  assumes  a  sort  of 
calmness.  It  soothes,  while  it  awes  the  mind. 

Leaning  over  the  cliff,  I  saw  the  guide  conducting 
two  adventurers  behind  the  falls.  It  was  pleasant, 
from  that  high  seat  in  the  sunshine,  to  observe  them 
struggling  against  the  eternal  storm  of  the  lower  re 
gions,  with  heads  bent  down,  now  faltering,  now  press 
ing  forward,  and  finally  swallowed  up  in  their  victory. 
After  their  disappearance,  a  blast  rushed  out  with  an 
old  hat,  which  it  had  swept  from  one  of  their  heads. 
The  rock,  to  which  they  were  directing  their  unseen 
course,  is  marked,  at  a  fearful  distance  on  the  exterior 
of  the  sheet,  by  a  jet  of  foam.  The  attempt  to  reach 
it  appears  both  poetical  and  perilous  to  a  looker-on, 
but  may  be  accomplished  without  much  more  diffi 
culty  or  hazard  than  in  stemming  a  violent  north 
easter.  In  a  few  moments,  forth  came  the  children 
of  the  mist.  Dripping  and  breathless,  they  crept 


124  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

along  the  base  of  the  cliff,  ascended  to  the  guide's  cot 
tage,  and  received,  I  presume,  a  certificate  of  their 
achievement,  with  three  verses  of  sublime  poetry  on 
the  back. 

My  contemplations  were  often  interrupted  by  stran 
gers  who  came  down  from  Forsyth's  to  take  their  first 
view  of  the  falls.  A  short,  ruddy,  middle-aged  gen 
tleman,  fresh  from  Old  England,  peeped  over  the  rock, 
and  evinced  his  approbation  by  a  broad  grin.  His 
spouse,  a  very  robust  lady,  afforded  a  sweet  example 
of  maternal  solicitude,  being  so  intent  on  the  safety  of 
her  little  boy  that  she  did  not  even  glance  at  Niagara. 
As  for  the  child,  he  gave  himself  wholly  to  the  enjoy 
ment  of  a  stick  of  candy.  Another  traveller,  a  native 
American,  and  no  rare  character  among  us,  produced 
a  volume  of  Captain  Hall's  tour,  and  labored  earnestly 
to  adjust  Niagara  to  the  captain's  description,  depart 
ing,  at  last,  without  one  new  idea  or  sensation  of  his 
own.  The  next  comer  was  provided,  not  with  a 
printed  book,  but  with  a  blank  sheet  of  foolscap,  from 
top  to  bottom  of  which,  by  means  of  an  ever-pointed 
pencil,  the  cataract  was  made  to  thunder.  In  a  little 
talk  which  we  had  together,  he  awarded  his  approba 
tion  to  the  general  view,  but  censured  the  position  of 
Goat  Island,  observing  that  it  should  have  been  thrown 
farther  to  the  right,  so  as  to  widen  the  American  falls, 
and  contract  those  of  the  Horseshoe.  Next  appeared 
two  traders  of  Michigan,  who  declared,  that,  upon  the 
whole,  the  sight  was  worth  looking  at ;  there  certainly 
was  an  immense  water-power  here  ;  but  that,  after  all, 
they  would  go  twice  as  far  to  see  the  noble  stone- works 
of  Lockport,  where  the  Grand  Canal  is  locked  down  a 
descent  of  sixty  feet.  They  were  succeeded  by  a  young 
fellow,  in  a  homespun  cotton  dress,  with  a  staff  in  his 


MY  VISIT  TO  NIAGARA.  125 

hand,  and  a  pack  over  his  shoulders.  He  advanced 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  rock,  where  his  attention,  at 
first  wavering  among  the  different  components  of  the 
scene,  finally  became  fixed  in  the  angle  of  the  Horse 
shoe  falls,  which  is,  indeed,  the  central  point  of  inter 
est.  His  whole  soul  seemed  to  go  forth  and  be  trans 
ported  thither,  till  the  staff  slipped  from  his  relaxed 
grasp,  and  falling  down  —  down  —  down  —  struck 
upon  the  fragment  of  the  Table  Rock. 

In  this  manner  I  spent  some  hours,  watching  the 
varied  impression,  made  by  the  cataract,  on  those  who 
disturbed  me,  and  returning  to  unwearied  contempla 
tion,  when  left  alone.  At  length  my  time  came  to  de* 
part.  There  is  a  grassy  footpath  through  the  woods, 
along  the  summit  of  the  bank,  to  a  point  whence  a 
causeway,  hewn  in  the  side  of  the  precipice,  goes  wind 
ing  down  to  the  Ferry,  about  half  a  mile  below  the 
Table  Rock.  The  sun  was  near  setting,  when  I 
emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  and  began  the 
descent.  The  indirectness  of  my  downward  road  con 
tinually  changed  the  point  of  view,  and  showed  me,  in 
rich  and  repeated  succession,  now,  the  whitening  rap 
ids  and  majestic  leap  of  the  main  river,  which  ap 
peared  more  deeply  massive  as  the  light  departed; 
now,  the  lovelier  picture,  yet  still  sublime,  of  Goat 
Island,  with  its  rocks  and  grove,  and  the  lesser  falls, 
tumbling  over  the  right  bank  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  like 
a  tributary  stream ;  now,  the  long  vista  of  the  river, 
as  it  eddied  and  whirled  between  the  cliffs,  to  pass 
through  Ontario  toward  the  sea,  and  everywhere  to 
be  wondered  at,  for  this  one  unrivalled  scene.  The 
golden  sunshine  tinged  the  sheet  of  the  American  cas 
cade,  and  painted  on  its  heaving  spray  the  broken 
semicircle  of  a  rainbow,  heaven's  own  beauty  crown- 


126  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

ing  earth's  sublimity.  My  steps  were  slow,  and  I 
paused  long  at  every  turn  of  the  descent,  as  one  lin 
gers  and  pauses  who  discerns  a  brighter  and  brighten 
ing  excellence  in  what  he  must  soon  behold  no  more. 
The  solitude  of  the  old  wilderness  now  reigned  over 
the  whole  vicinity  of  the  falls.  My  enjoyment  be 
came  the  more  rapturous,  because  no  poet  shared  it, 
nor  wretch  devoid  of  poetry  profaned  it ;  but  the  spot 
so  famous  through  the  world  was  all  my  own  I 


JOHN   GREENLEAP  WHITTIER. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER,  of  Quaker  birth  in  Puri 
tan  surroundings,  was  born  at  the  homestead  near  Haver- 
hill,  Massachusetts,  December  17,  1807.  Until  his  eigh 
teenth  year  he  lived  at  home,  working  upon  the  farm  and  in 
the  little  shoemaker's  shop  which  nearly  every  farm  then  had 
as  a  resource  in  the  otherwise  idle  hours  of  winter.  The 
manual,  homely  labor  upon  which  he  was  employed  was  in 
part  the  foundation  of  that  deep  interest  which  the  poet 
never  has  ceased  to  take  in  the  toil  and  plain  fortunes  of  the 
people.  Throughout  his  poetry  runs  this  golden  thread  of 
sympathy  with  honorable  labor  and  enforced  poverty,  and 
many  poems  are  directly  inspired  by  it.  While  at  work 
with  his  father  he  sent  poems  to  the  Haverhill  Gazette,  and 
that  he  was  not  in  subjection  to  his  work  is  very  evident  by 
the  fact  that  he  translated  it  and  similar  occupations  into 
Songs  of  Labor.  He  had  two  years'  academic  training,  and 
in  1829  became  editor  in  Boston  of  the  American  Manu 
facturer,  a  paper  published  in  the  interest  of  the  tariff.  In 
1831  he  published  his  Legends  of  New  England,  prose 
sketches  in  a  department  of  literature  which  has  always 
had  strong  claims  upon  his  interest.  No  American  writer, 
unless  Irving  be  excepted,  has  done  so  much  to  throw  a 
graceful  veil  of  poetry  and  legend  over  the  country  of  hia 
daily  life.  Essex  County,  in  Massachusetts,  and  the  beaches 
lying  between  Newburyport  and  Portsmouth  blossom  with 
flowers  of  Whittier's  planting.  He  has  made  rare  use  of 


128  JOHN  GEEENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

the  homely  stories  which  he  had  heard  in  his  childhood,  and 
learned  afterward  from  familiar  intercourse  with  country 
people,  and  he  has  himself  used  invention  delicately  and  in 
harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the  New  England  coast.  Al 
though  of  a  body  of  men  who  in  earlier  days  had  been  perse 
cuted  by  the  Puritans  of  New  England,  his  generous  mind 
has  not  failed  to  detect  all  the  good  that  was  in  the  stern 
creed  and  life  of  the  persecutors,  and  to  bring  it  forward  into 
the  light  of  his  poetry. 

In  1836  he  published  Mogg  Megone,  a  poem  which  stood 
first  in  the  collected  edition  of  his  poems  issued  in  1857,  and 
was  admitted  there  with  some  reluctance,  apparently,  by  the 
author.  In  that  and  the  Bridal  of  Pennacook  he  draws  his 
material  from  the  relation  held  between  the  Indians  and  the 
settlers.  His  sympathy  was  always  with  the  persecuted  and 
oppressed,  and  while  historically  he  found  an  object  of  pity 
and  self-reproach  in  the  Indian,  his  profoundest  compassion 
and  most  stirring  indignation  were  called  out  by  African  slav 
ery.  From  the  earliest  he  was  upon  the  side  of  the  abolition 
party.  Year  after  year  poems  fell  from  his  pen  in  which 
with  all  the  eloquence  of  his  nature  he  sought  to  enlist  his 
countrymen  upon  the  side  of  emancipation  and  freedom.  It 
is  not  too  much  to  say  that  in  the  slow  development  of  pub 
lic  sentiment  Whittier's  steady  song  was  one  of  the  most 
powerful  advocates  that  the  slave  had,  all  the  more  power 
ful  that  it  was  free  from  malignity  or  unjust  accusation. 

Whittier's  poems  have  been  issued  in  a  number  of  small 
volumes,  and  collected  into  single  larger  volumes.  Besides 
those  already  indicated,  there  are  a  number  which  owe  their 
origin  to  his  tender  regard  for  domestic  life  and  the  simple 
experience  of  the  men  and  women  about  him.  Of  these 
Snow-Bound  is  the  most  memorable.  Then  his  fondness  for 
a  story  has  led  him  to  use  the  ballad  form  in  many  cases, 
and  Mabel  Martin  is  one  of  a  number,  in  which  the  narra 
tive  is  blended  with  a  fine  and  strong  charity.  The  catholic 
mind  of  this  writer  and  his  instinct  for  discovering  the  pure 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  129 

moral  in  human  action  are  disclosed  by  a  number  of  poems, 
drawn  from  a  wide  range  of  historical  fact,  dealing  with  a 
great  variety  of  religious  faiths  and  circumstances  of  life, 
but  always  pointing  to  some  sweet  and  strong  truth  of  the 
divine  life.  Of  such  are  The  Brother  of  Mercy,  The  Gift  of 
Tritemius,  The  Two  Rabbis,  and  others.  Whittier's  Prose 
Works  are  comprised  in  three  volumes,  and  consist  mainly 
of  his  contributions  to  journals  and  of  Leaves  from  Mar 
garet  Smith's  Journal,  a  fictitious  diary  of  a  visitor  to  New 
England  in  1678. 


SNOW-BOUND. 

A   WINTER   IDYL. 

*'  As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in  the  dark,  so  good 
Spirits  which  be  Angels  of  Light  are  augmented  not  only  by  the 
Divine  light  of  the  Sun,  but  also  by  our  common  Wood  fire  : 
and  as  the  Celestial  Fire  drives  away  dark  spirits,  so  also  this 
oar  Fire  of  Wood  doth  the  same."  —  COR.  AGRIPPA,  Occult 
Philosophy,  Book  I.  ch.  v. 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow ;  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight ;  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  inclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

EMBESON,  The  Snow-Storm. 

THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 

Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 

And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 

A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky  s 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out,  10 


SNOW-BOUND.  131 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 
Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east ;  we  heard  the  roar  IB 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores,  — 

Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors,  » 

Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 

Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows : 

Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn; 

And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 

Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows  * 

The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows ; 

While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 

Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 

The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 

And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent.  » 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro  * 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow : 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts.  41 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on : 
The  morning  broke  without  a  sun; 


132  JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake  and  pellicle  «t 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent  •» 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes  ;  strange  domes  and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood,  sc 

Or  garden-wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 

A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road ; 

The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat  eo 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof  ; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 

In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 

Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle.  65 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted :  "  Boys,  a  path !  " 

65.  The  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa,  in  Italy,  which  inclines  from 
the  perpendicular  a  little  more  than  six  feet  in  eighty,  is  a  cam 
panile,  or  bell-tower,  built  of  white  marble,  very  beautiful,  but 
so  famous  for  its  singular  deflection  from  perpendicularity  as  to 
be  known  almost  wholly  as  a  curiosity.  Opinions  differ  as  to 
the  leaning  being  the  result  of  accident  or  design,  but  the  better 
judgment  makes  it  an  effect  of  the  character  of  the  soil  on 
which  it  is  built.  The  Cathedral  to  which  it  belongs  has  suf 
fered  so  much  from  a  similar  cause  that  there  is  not  a  vertical 
Hue  in  it. 


SNOW-BOUND.  133 

Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 

Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy  ?) 

Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew ;  TO 

With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low 
To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 

We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 

And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 

A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid  i» 

With  dazzling  crystal :  we  had  read 

Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 

And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 

With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 

To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers.  M 

We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 

And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 

The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 

And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about ; 

The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said,  86 

And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led  ; 

The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 

And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked  ; 

The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 

Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep,  w 

Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 

And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 

The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before ; 

Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone,  96 

The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone, 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 

90.  Amun,  or  Amraon,  was  an  Egyptian  being,  representing 
an  attribute  of  Deity  under  the  form  of  a  ram. 


184  JOHN  GREEN  LEAF  WHITTIER. 

To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 

Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 

A  solitude  made  more  intense  too 

By  dreary-voiced  elements, 

The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 

The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 

And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 

Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet.  IDS 

Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 

No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 

Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 

Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 

We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear  uo 

The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 

The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 

Had  been  to  us  companionship, 

And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 

To  have  an  almost  human  tone.  tu 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 

Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 

The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 

From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 

"We  piled  with  care  our  nightly  stack  uo 

Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back,  — 

The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 

And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick ; 

The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 

And  filled  between  with  curious  art  its 

The  ragged  brush ;  then,  hovering  near, 

We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 

Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 

On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 

Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room  lao 


SNOW-BOUND.  186 

Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  blooin ; 

While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 

Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 

And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 

Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free.  «>• 

The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 

The  Turk's  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed ; 

While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 

The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 

Whispered  the  old  rhyme  :  "  Under  the  tree          u» 

When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 

There  the  witches  are  making  tea." 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 

Shone  at  its  full ;  the  hill-range  stood 

Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood,  MB 

Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 

Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 

Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 

Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 

Against  the  whiteness  of  their  back.  no 

For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 

Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 

Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 

To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without,  i» 

We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 

Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 

In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 

While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 

The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat ;  i« 

And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 

Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 


136  JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHIT  TIER. 

The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 

The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed, 

The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread  IM 

Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 

The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 

A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 

And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 

Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet,  wo 

The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 

The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 

And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 

With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved  ?  m 

What  matter  how  the  north-wind  raved  ? 

Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 

Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy  glow. 

O  Time  and  Change  !  —  with  hair  as  gray 

As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day,  iso 

How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gone 

Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on ! 

Ah,  brother !  only  I  and  thou 

Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now,  — 

The  dear  home  faces  whereupon  i» 

That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 

Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 

The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still ; 

Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth  o'er, 

Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more.  190 

We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have  worn, 
We  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees, 
We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 

And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn  ; 

We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read,  MB 


SNOW-BOUND.  187 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er, 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 

No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor ! 
Yet  Love  will  dream  and  Faith  will  trust  «• 

(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  just) 
That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must. 
Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees  I 
Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away,  ** 

Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play  I 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 

The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death,  aw 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own  I 

We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 

Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told, 

Or  stammered  from  our  school-book  lore 

"  The  chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore.'*  tu 

How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 

Was  clay  in  Slavery's  shaping  hand, 

As  if  a  far-blown  trumpet  stirred 

The  languorous,  sin-sick  air,  I  heard : 

"  Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry,  220 

Claim  the  first  right  which  Nature  gave, 
From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly, 

Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave  I  " 
Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 

215.  This  line  and  lines  220-223  are  taken  from  The  African 
Chief,  a  poem  by  Mrs.  Sarah  Wentworth  Morton,  which  was 
included  in  Caleb  Bingham's  The  American  Preceptor,  a  school- 
book  used  in  Whittier's  boyhood. 


138  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

Oil  Memphremagog's  wooded  side  ;  225 

Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 

In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp ; 

Lived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 

Beneath  St.  Francois'  hemlock-trees; 

Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone  MO 

On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone ; 

Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 

Which  led  the  village  dance  away, 

And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 

The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl.  as 

Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 

Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes  spread 

Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee ; 

Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 

Swept,  scythe  on  scythe,  their  swaths  along       2*0 

The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 

We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 
And  round  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals 
The  hake-broil  on  the  driftwood  coals ; 

The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made,  au 

Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot, 

With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from  the  pot. 

We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old, 

And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel  told 

To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay  » 

Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 

Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 

When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 
The  square  sail  of  the  gundelow, 

And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars.  a* 

Our  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking  heel, 


SNOW-BOUND.  139 

Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 

At  midnight  on  Cochecho  town, 

And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bore  >w 

His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 

Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 

So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free 

(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways),  »i 

The  story  of  her  early  days,  — 
She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home ; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us  room ; 
We  stole  with  her  a  frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  conjuring-book,  «» 

The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country-side ; 
We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 

The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away ;  in 

We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow  grew, 
What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down, 
Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay  aai 

The  duck's  black  squadron  anchored  lay, 
And  heard  the  wild  geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 
Then,  haply,  with  a  look  more  grave, 
And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she  gave  » 

From  painful  Sewel's  ancient  tome, 

259.  Dover  in  New  Hampshire. 

286.  William  Sewel  was  the  historian  of  the  Quakers.  Charles 
Lamb  seemed  to  have  as  good  an  opinion  of  the  book  as  Whit- 
tier.  In  his  essay  A  Quakers'  Meeting,  in  Essays  of  Elia,  he  says  : 
"  Header,  if  you  are  not  acquainted  with  it,  I  would  recommend 


140  JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHIT  TIER. 

Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home, 

Of  faith  fire-winged  by  martyrdom, 

Or  Chalkley's  Journal,  old  and  quaint,  — 

Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea-saint !  —  aw 

Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  prevailed, 

And  water-butt  and  bread-cask  failed, 

And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 

His  portly  presence,  mad  for  food, 

With  dark  hints  muttered  under  breath  sw 

Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death, 

to  you,  above  all  church-narratives,  to  read  Sewel's  History  of  the 
Quakers.  ...  It  is  far  more  edifying  and  affecting  than  any 
thing  you  will  read  of  Wesley  or  his  colleagues." 

289.  Thomas  Chalkley  was  an  Englishman  of  Quaker  parent 
age,  born  in  1675,  who  travelled  extensively  as  a  preacher,  and 
finally  made  his  home  in  Philadelphia.  He  died  in  1749 ;  his 
Journal  was  first  published  in  1747.  His  own  narrative  of  the 
incident  which  the  poet  relates  is  as  follows  :  "  To  stop  their  mur 
muring,  I  told  them  they  should  not  need  to  cast  lots,  which  was 
usual  in  such  cases,  which  of  us  should  die  first,  for  I  would  freely 
offer  up  my  life  to  do  them  good.  One  said,  '  God  bless  you  ! 
I  will  not  eat  any  of  you.'  Another  said,  '  He  would  rather  die 
before  he  would  eat  any  of  me  ; '  and  so  said  several.  I  can 
truly  say,  on  that  occasion,  at  that  time,  my  life  was  not  dear  to 
me,  and  that  I  was  serious  and  ingenuous  in  my  proposition  :  and 
as  I  was  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  thoughtfully  consid 
ering  my  proposal  to  the  company,  and  looking  in  my  mind  to 
Him  that  made  me,  a  very  large  dolphin  came  up  towards  the 
top  or  surface  of  the  water,  and  looked  me  in  the  face  ;  and  I 
called  the  people  to  put  a  hook  into  the  sea,  and  take  him,  for 
here  is  one  come  to  redeem  me  (I  said  to  them).  And  they  put 
a  hook  into  the  sea,  and  the  fish  readily  took  it,  and  they  caught 
him.  He  was  longer  than  myself.  I  think  he  was  about  six 
feet  long,  and  the  largest  that  ever  I  saw.  This  plainly  showed 
us  that  we  ought  not  to  distrust  the  providence  of  the  Almighty. 
The  people  were  quieted  by  this  act  of  Providence,  and  mur 
mured  no  more.  We  caught  enough  to  eat  plentifully  of,  till  we 
got  into  the  capes  of  Delaware." 


SNOW-BOUND.  141 

Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  supplies, 

To  be  himself  the  sacrifice. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save 

The  good  man  from  his  living  grave,  n. 

A  ripple  on  the  water  grew, 

A  school  of  porpoise  flashed  in  view. 

"  Take,  eat,"  he  said,  "  and  be  content ; 

These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 

By  Him  who  gave  the  tangled  ram  *» 

To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham." 

Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books, 

Was  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks, 

The  ancient  teachers  never  dumb 

Of  Nature's  unhoused  lyceum.  no 

In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise, 

He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 

And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine, 

By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 

Holding  the  cunning-warded  keys  us 

To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries ; 

Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 

That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 

Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old,  120 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes,  who  interpreted 

310.  The  measure  requires  the  accent  ly'ceum,  but  in  stricter 
use  the  accent  is  lyce'um. 

320.  A  philosopher  born  in  the  first  century  of  the  Christian 
era,  of  whom  many  strange  stories  were  told,  especially  regard 
ing  his  converse  with  birds  and  animals. 

322.  Hermes  Trismegistus,  a  celebrated  Egyptian  priest  and 
philosopher,  to  whom  was  attributed  the  revival  of  geometry, 
arithmetic,  and  art  among  the  Egyptians.  He  was  little  later 
than  Apollouius. 


142  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said ; 

A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 

Content  to  live  where  life  began ;  aas 

Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds, 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 

Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 

WTiereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 

The  common  features  magnified,  no 

As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 

In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view,  — 

He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 

And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 

The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done,  » 

The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun  ; 

Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 

Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 

The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 

From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew,  n» 

The  partridge  drummed  i'  the  wood,  the  mink 

Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 

In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 

The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gray, 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell ;  •« 

The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade, 
And  tier  by  tier  his  mud-walls  laid  ; 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his  shell. 

Next,  the  dear  aunt,  whose  smile  of  cheer  SM 

And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear,  — 

332.  Gilbert  White,  of  Selborue,  England,  was  a  clergyman 
who  wrote  the  Natural  History  of  Selborne,  a  minute,  affection 
ate,  and  charming  description  of  what  could  be  seen,  as  it  were, 
from  his  own  doorstep.  The  accuracy  of  his  observation  and  the 
deligktf ulness  of  his  manner  have  kept  the  book  a  classic. 


SNOW-BOUND.  143 

The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 

Perverse  denied  a  household  mate, 

Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less 

Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness,  » 

And  welcome  whereso'er  she  went, 

A  calm  and  gracious  element, 

Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet  income 

And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home,  — 

Called  up  her  girlhood  memories,  i  a» 

The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 

The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails, 

Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 

And  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 

A  golden  woof-thread  of  romance.  » 

For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 

And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood ; 

Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 

The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way ; 

The  morning  dew,  that  dried  so  soon  wo 

With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon  ; 

Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care, 

From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair, 

All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 

The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart.  «w 

Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 

Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 

Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside ; 

A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust,  «w 

Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 

Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act, 

And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact, 

Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 


144  JOHN  GREEN  LEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 

0  heart  sore-tried  !  thou  hast  the  best 
That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee,  —  rest, 
Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things  1 

How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 
With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent  *at 

Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings ! 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat  »• 

Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 

Now  bathed  within  the  fadeless  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
Oh,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill,  400 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago  :  — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow  «» 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain ; 
And  now,  when  summer  south-winds  blow 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 

1  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 

I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod,  <io 

Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 

The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 

Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 

With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 

The  birds  are  glad ;  the  brier-rose  fills  <u 

398.  Th'  unfading  green  would  be  harsher,  but  more  correct, 
since  the  termination  less  is  added  to  nouns  and  not  to  verbs. 


SNOW-BOUND.  145 

The  air  with  sweetness ;  all  the  hills 

Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky ; 

But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 

For  something  gone  which  should  he  nigh, 

A  loss  in  all  familiar  things,  « 

In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that  sings. 

And  yet,  dear  heart !  remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I  hold  ?        425 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 
Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me  ? 
And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 

Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows  grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon  430 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are> 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand,  435 

And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand? 

Brisk  wielder  of  the  birch  and  rule, 

The  master  of  the  district  school 

Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place ;  4«o 

Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 

Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce  appeared 

The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 

He  teased  the  mitten-blinded  cat, 

Played  cross-pins  on  my  uncle's  hat,  MS 

Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 

In  classic  Dartmouth's  college  halls. 

Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among, 


146  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER, 

From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 

By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant,  450 

Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 

He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay 

His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way ; 

Could  doff  at  ease  his  scholar's  gown 

To  peddle  wares  from  town  to  town ;  455 

Or  through  the  long  vacation's  reach 

In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach, 

Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 

At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round, 

The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight,  MO 

The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty  night, 

The  rustic  party,  with  its  rough 

Accompaniment  of  blind-man's-buff, 

And  whirling  plate,  and  forfeits  paid, 

His  winter  task  a  pastime  made.  465 

Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 

He  tuned  his  merry  violin, 

Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 

Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding  yarn, 

Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told  «o 

Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 

Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and  Rome 

Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 

And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 

Twixt  Yankee  pedlers  and  old  gods ;  475 

Where  Pindus-born  Arachthus  took 

The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 

And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 

476.  Pindus  is  the  mountain  chain  which,  running  from  north 
to  south,  nearly  bisects  Greece.  Five  rivers  take  their  rise  from 
the  central  peak,  the  Adas,  the  Arachthus,  the  Haliacmon,  the 
Pene'us,  and  the  Achelous. 


SNOW-BOUND.  147 

Became  a  huckleberry  hill. 

A  careless  boy  that  night  he  seemed ;  4M 

But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed, 

And  hostage  from  the  future  took 

In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 
Large-brained,  clear-eyed,  —  of  such  as  he  <« 

Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 
Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail, 
Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail ; 
All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit  strike, 
Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike ;     ,  j*  ,  m 

Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance, 
The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth, 
Which  nurtured  Treason's  monstrous  growth, 
Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell  «0 

Of  prison-torture  possible ; 
The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute, 
Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 
For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will, 
For  blind  routine,  wise-handed  skill ;  MI 

A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 
Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence 
The  quick  wires  of  intelligence  ; 
Till  North  and  South  together  brought 
Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought,  MB 

In  peace  a  common  flag  salute, 

And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free 

And  unresentful  rivalry, 
Harvest  the  fields  wherein  they  fought. 

Another  guest  that  winter  night  «w 

Flashed  back  from  lustrous  eyes  the  light. 


148  JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not  young, 

The  honeyed  music  of  her  tongue 

And  words  of  meekness  scarcely  told 

A  nature  passionate  and  bold,  « 

Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning  guide, 

Its  milder  features  dwarfed  beside 

Her  unbent  will's  majestic  pride. 

She  sat  among  us,  at  the  best, 

A  not  unfeared,  half-welcome  guest,  BO 

Rebuking  with  her  cultured  phrase 

Our  homeliness  of  words  and  ways. 

A  certain  pard-like,  treacherous  grace 

Swayed  the  lithe  limbs  and  dropped  the  lash, 
Lent  the  white  teeth  their  dazzling  flash ;  SK 

And  under  low  brows,  black  with  night, 
Rayed  out  at  times  a  dangerous  light ; 

The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her  face 

Presaging  ill  to  him  whom  Fate 

Condemned  to  share  her  love  or  hate.  so 

A  woman  tropical,  intense 
In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and  sense, 
She  blended  in  a  like  degree 
The  vixen  and  the  devotee, 
Revealing  with  each  freak  or  feint  » 

The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 
The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint. 

Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 

Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist ; 

The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes  MI 

Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise. 

Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 

536.  See  Shakespeare's  comedy  of  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 
637.  St.  Catherine   of   Siena,  who  is  represented  as  having 
wonderful  visions.     She  made  a  vow  of  silence  for  three  years. 


SNOW-BOUND.  149 

Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout ; 

And  the  sweet  voice  had  notes  more  high 

And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry.  MS 

Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 

Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and  gown, 

What  convent-gate  has  held  its  lock 

Against  the  challenge  of  her  knock  1 

Through  Smyrna's  plague-hushed  thoroughfares,  »o 

Up  sea-set  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 

Gray  olive  slopes  of  hills  that  hem 

Thy  tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusalem, 

Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 

The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon  w 

With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own, 

Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their  way ; 

And  still,  unrestful,  bowed,  and  gray, 

She  watches  under  Eastern  skies, 

With  hope  each  day  renewed  and  fresh,  aa» 

The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the  flesh, 

Whereof  she  dreams  and  prophesies ! 

555.  An  interesting  account  of  Lady  Hester  Stanhope,  an 
English  gentlewoman  who  led  a  singular  life  on  Mount  Lebanon 
in  Syria,  will  be  found  in  Kinglake's  Eothen,  chapter  viii. 

562.  This  not  unfeared,  half-welcome  guest  was  Miss  Harriet 
Livermore,  daughter  of  Judge  Livermore  of  New  Hampshire. 
She  was  a  woman  of  fine  powers,  but  wayward,  wild,  and  enthu 
siastic.  She  went  on  an  independent  mission  to  the  Western 
Indians,  whom  she,  in  common  with  some  others,  believed  to  be 
remnants  of  the  lost  tribes  of  Israel.  At  the  time  of  this  narra 
tive  she  was  about  twenty-eight  years  old,  but  much  of  her  life 
afterward  was  spent  in  the  Orient.  She  was  at  one  time  the 
companion  and  friend  of  Lady  Hester  Stanhope,  but  finally 
quarrelled  with  her  about  the  use  of  the  holy  horses  kept  in  the 
stable  in  waiting  for  the  Lord'a  ride  to  Jerusalem  at  the  second 
advent 


150  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

Where'er  her  troubled  path  may  be, 

The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her  go  I 
The  outward  wayward  life  we  see,  MS 

The  hidden  springs  we  may  not  know. 
Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 

What  threads  the  fatal  sisters  spun, 

Through  what  ancestral  years  has  run 
The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born,  an 

What  forged  her  cruel  chain  of  moods, 
What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes, 

And  held  the  love  within  her  mute, 
What  mingled  madness  in  the  blood, 

A  lifelong  discord  and  annoy,  m 

Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy, 
And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 

Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit 
It  is  not  ours  to  separate 

The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate,  m 

To  show  what  metes  and  bounds  should  stand 
Upon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 
And  between  choice  and  Providence 
Divide  the  circle  of  events  ; 

But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just,  ass 

Merciful  and  compassionate, 
And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is, 

That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust ! 

At  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling  low,  »c 

Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow, 

The  bull's-eye  watch  that  hung  in  view, 

Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through, 

Pointed  with  mutely-warning  sign 

Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine.  •§ 


SNOW-BOUND.  151 

That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke : 

My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 

Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse  gray, 

And  laid  it  tenderly  away, 

Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover  «w 

The  dull  red  brand  with  ashes  over. 

And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 

The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 

One  moment,  seeking  to  express 

Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness  «* 

For  food  and  shelter,  warmth  and  health, 

And  love's  contentment  more  than  wealth, 

With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak, 

Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment  seek, 

But  such  as  warm  the  generous  heart,  «o 

O'er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its  part) 

That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night, 

For  bread  and  clothing,  warmth  and  light 

Within  our  beds  awhile  we  heard 

The  wind  that  round  the  gables  roared,  tai 

With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 

Which  made  our  very  bedsteads  rock. 

We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards  tost, 

The  board-nails  snapping  in  the  frost ; 

And  on  us,  through  the  unplastered  wall,  eao 

Felt  the  light  sifted  snow-flakes  fall, 

But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 

When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is  new ; 

Faint  and  more  faint  the  murmurs  grew, 

Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams  « 

They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 

Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 

And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 


162  JOHN  OREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the  shout 

Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear  ;  CM 

And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 

To  break  the  drifted  highways  out. 

Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow 

We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen  go, 

Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  uptost,  6» 

Their  straining  nostrils  white  with  frost 

Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 

Drew  up,  an  added  team  to  gain. 

The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a-cold, 

Passed,  with  the  cider-mug,  their  jokes  «o 

From  lip  to  lip ;  the  younger  folks 

Down  the  loose  snow-banks,  wrestling,  rolled, 

Then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 

O'er  windy  hill,  through  clogged  ravine, 

And  woodland  paths  that  wound  between  «s 

Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter-weighed. 

From  every  barn  a  team  afoot, 

At  every  house  a  new  recruit, 

Where,  drawn  by  Nature's  subtlest  law, 

Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw  a» 

Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls 

And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 

Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence 

Against  the  snow-balls'  compliments, 

And  reading  in  each  missive  tost  « 

The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 

We  heard  once  more  the  sleigh-bells'  sound ; 

And,  following  where  the  teamsters  led, 
The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 

659.  The  wise  old  Doctor  was  Dr.  Weld  of  Haverhill,  an  able 
jian,  who  died  at  the  age  of  ninety-six. 


SNOW-BOUND.  153 

Jnst  pausing  at  our  door  to  say  m 

In  the  brief  autocratic  way 

Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty's  call, 

Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 

That  some  poor  neighbor  sick  abed 
At  night  our  mother's  aid  would  need.  «s 

For,  one  in  generous  thought  and  deed, 

What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's  sight 

The  Quaker  matron's  inward  light, 
The  Doctor's  mail  of  Calvin's  creed  ? 
All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect  «o 

Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 

The  Christian  pearl  of  charity  I 

So  days  went  on  :  a  week  had  passed 

Since  the  great  world  was  heard  from  last.  are 

The  Almanac  we  studied  o'er, 

Bead  and  reread  our  little  store 

Of  books  and  pamphlets,  scarce  a  score  j 

One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 

From  younger  eyes,  a  book  forbid,  e» 

And  poetry,  (or  good  or  bad, 

A  single  book  was  all  we  had,) 

Where  Ellwood's  meek,  drab-skirted  Muse, 

A  stranger  to  the  heathen  Nine, 

Sang,  with  a  somewhat  nasal  whine,  «6 

683.  Thomas  Ellwood,  one  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  a  con 
temporary  and  friend  of  Milton,  and  the  suggestor  of  Paradise 
Regained,  wrote  an  epic  poem  in  five  books,  called  Davideis,  the 
life  of  King  David  of  Israel.  He  wrote  the  book,  we  are  told, 
for  his  own  diversion,  so  it  was  not  necessary  that  others  should 
be  diverted  by  it.  Ellwood's  autobiography,  a  quaint  and  de 
lightful  book,  is  included  in  Howells's  series  of  Choice  Autobio 
graphies. 


154  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB. 

The  wars  of  David  and  the  Jews. 

At  last  the  floundering  carrier  bore 

The  village  paper  to  our  door. 

Ix>  I  broadening  outward  as  we  read, 

To  warmer  zones  the  horizon  spread  3  '  •• 

In  panoramic  length  unrolled 

We  saw  the  marvels  that  it  told. 

Before  us  passed  the  painted  Creeks, 

And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 

In  Costa  Eica's  everglades.  « 

And  up  Taygetus  winding  slow 
Bode  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks, 

A  Turk's  head  at  each  saddle  bow  I 
Welcome  to  us  its  week  old  news, 
Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse,  TOO 

Its  monthly  gauge  of  snow  and  rain, 
Its  record,  mingling  in  a  breath 
The  wedding  knell  and  dirge  of  death } 
Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale, 
The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail ;  TO 

Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 
Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost, 

And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gain. 
We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street, 
The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us  beat ;  flo 

The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 

693.  Referring  to   the   removal  of  the  Creek  Indians  from 
Georgia  to  beyond  the  Mississippi. 

694.  In  1822  Sir  Gregor  McGregor,  a  Scotchman,  began  an 
ineffectual  attempt  to  establish  a  colony  in  Costa  Rica. 

697.  Taygetus  is  a  mountain  on  the  Gulf  of  Messenia  in 
Greece,  and  near  by  is  the  district  of  Maina,  noted  for  its  rob 
bers  and  pirates.  It  was  from  these  mountaineers  that  Ypsilanti, 
a  Greek  patriot,  drew  his  cavalry  in  the  struggle  with  Turkey 
which  resulted  in  the  independence  of  Greece. 


SNO  W-BOUND.  166 

Was  melted  in  the  genial  glow ; 
Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked  door, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  once  more  I 

Clasp,  Angel  of  the  backward  look  n* 

And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 

And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book ; 
The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  spectral  past ;  nt 

Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 
The  characters  of  joy  and  woe  ; 
The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 
Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears, 
Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death,  » 

And  haunts  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 

Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 
With  the  white  amaranths  underneath. 
Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 

The  restless  sands'  incessant  fall,  "m 

Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed, 
Each  clamorous  with  its  own  sharp  need, 

And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 
Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids ; 
I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids  T» 

The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 

For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears : 

Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day  I 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life,  74* 

Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks  its  strife, 

741.  The  name  is  drawn   from  a  historic  compact  in  1010, 
when  the  Church  forbade  barons  to  make  any  attack  on  each 


156  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngf  ul  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew  ; 
And  dear  and  early  friends  —  the  few  145 

Who  yet  remain  —  shall  pause  to  view 

These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days  ; 
Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth, 
And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth 

To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's  blaze  1  m 

And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond  ;  i» 

The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence, 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS. 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke  6 

And  grating  saw  begin  ; 

other  between  sunset  on  Wednesday  and  sunrise  on  the  following 
Monday,  or  upon  any  ecclesiastical  fast  or  feast  day.  It  also 
provided  that  no  man  was  to  molest  a  laborer  working  in  the 
fields,  or  to  lay  hands  on  any  implement  of  husbandry,  on  pain 
of  excommunication. 

747.  The  Flemish  school  of  painting  was  chiefly  occupied  with 
homely  interiors. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS.  157 

The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 
The  mallet  to  the  pin ! 

Hark !  roars  the  bellows,  blast  on  blast, 

The  sooty  smithy  jars,  10 

And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand  * 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer.  » 

Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still ; 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up !  up  I  in  nobler  toil  than  ours  » 

No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 
We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 

The  slaves  of  human  Art. 
Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 

And  drive  the  treenails  free  ;  ft 

Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 

Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough ; 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip  » 

With  salt-spray  caught  below ; 


158  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  beck, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel ; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel ; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

We  give  to  wind  and  wave, 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave ! 

Ho  I  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free  ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea  ? 
Look  I  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow  I 

God  bless  her !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostau ! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world  1 

Speed  on  the  ship !     But  let  her  bear 
No  merchandise  of  gin, 


THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE.  159 

No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within ; 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours ;  to 

But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 

And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain,  .  75 

The  spice  of  Morning-land ! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea  I  eo 

THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE. 

THE  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 

Has  never  ceased  to  play ; 
The  song  the  stars  of  morning  sung 

Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given,  • 

By  all  things  near  and  far  ; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 

As  kneels  the  human  knee,  II 

Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 
The  priesthood  of  the  sea  I 

They  pour  their  glittering  treasures  forth, 
Their  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring, 


160  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth  u 

Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  green  earth  sends  her  incense  up 

From  many  a  mountain  shrine ; 
From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 

She  pours  her  sacred  wine.  » 

The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 

Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer ; 
The  altar-curtains  of  the  hills 

Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are  loud,  25 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain,  — 
The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud, 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 

With  drooping  head  and  branches  crossed 

The  twilight  forest  grieves,  w 

Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 
From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 

Its  transept  earth  and  air, 
The  music  of  its  starry  march  » 

The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 

With  which  her  years  began, 
And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 

The  prayerless  heart  of  man.  « 


HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

THERE  died  at  Concord,  Massachusetts,  in  the  year  1862, 
a  man  of  forty-five  who,  if  one  were  to  take  his  word  for  it, 
need  never  have  gone  out  of  the  little  village  of  Concord  to 
see  all  that  was  worth  seeing  in  the  world.  Lowell,  in  hia 
My  Garden  Acquaintance,  reminds  the  reader  of  Gilbert 
White,  who,  in  his  Natural  History  of  Selborne,  gave  mi 
nute  details  of  a  lively  world  found  within  the  borders  of  a 
little  English  parish.  Alphonse  Karr,  a  French  writer,  has 
written  a  book  which  contracts  the  limit  still  further  in 
A  Journey  round  my  Garden,  but  neither  of  these  writers 
so  completely  isolated  himself  from  the  outside  world  as 
did  Thoreau,  who  had  a  collegiate  education  at  Harvard, 
made  short  journeys  to  Cape  Cod,  Maine,  and  Canada, 
acted  for  a  little  while  as  tutor  in  a  family  on  Staten  Island, 
but  spent  the  best  part  of  his  life  as  a  looker-on  in  Concord, 
and  during  two  years  of  the  time  lived  a  hermit  on  the 
shores  of  Walden  Pond.  He  made  his  living,  as  the  phrase 
goes,  by  the  occupation  of  a  land  surveyor,  but  he  followed 
the  profession  only  when  it  suited  his  convenience.  He  di(? 
not  marry ;  he  never  went  to  church ;  he  never  voted ;  hfr 
refused  to  pay  taxes  ;  he  sought  no  society ;  he  declined 
companions  when  they  were  in  his  way,  and  when  he  had 
anything  to  say  in  public,  went  about  from  door  to  door  and 
invited  people  to  come  to  a  hall  to  hear  him  deliver  his 
word. 

That  he  had  something  to  say  to  the  world  at  large  is 


162  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

pretty  evident  from  the  books  which  he  has  left,  and  it  ia 
intimated  that  the  unpublished  records  of  his  observation 
and  reflection  are  more  extensive.  Thus  far  his  published 
writings  are  contained  in  ten  volumes.  The  first  in  appear, 
ance  was  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers. 
It  was  published  in  1849  and  built  upon  the  adventures  of 
himself  and  brother  ten  years  before,  when,  in  a  boat  of 
their  own  construction,  they  had  made  their  way  from  Con 
cord  down  the  Concord  River  to  the  Merrimack,  up  that  to 
its  source,  and  back  to  the  starting  point.  It  will  readily 
be  seen  that  such  an  excursion  would  not  yield  a  bookful  of 
observation,  and  though  Thoreau  notes  in  it  many  trivial 
incidents,  a  great  part  of  the  contents  is  in  the  reflections 
which  he  makes  from  day  to  day.  He  comes  to  the  little 
river  with  its  sparse  border  of  population  and  meagre  his 
tory,  and  insists  upon  measuring  antiquity  and  fame  by  it. 
AH  of  his  reading  he  tests  by  the  measure  of  this  stream, 
and  undertakes  to  show  that  the  terms,  big  and  little,  are 
very  much  misapplied,  and  that  here  on  this  miniature  scale 
one  may  read  all  that  is  worth  knowing  in  life.  His  voy 
age  is  treated  with  the  gravity  which  one  might  use  in  re 
cording  a  journey  to  find  the  sources  of  the  Nile. 

Between  the  date  of  the  journey  and  the  publication  of 
the  book,  Thoreau  was  engaged  upon  an  experiment  still 
more  illustrative  of  his  creed  of  individuality.  In  1845  he 
built  a  hut  in  the  woods  by  Walden  Pond,  and  for  two 
years  lived  a  self-contained  life  there.  It  was  not  alto 
gether  a  lonely  life.  He  was  within  easy  walking  distance 
of  Concord  village,  and  the  novelty  of  his  housekeeping  at 
tracted  many  visitors,  while  his  friends  who  valued  his  con 
versation  sought  him  out  in  his  hermitage.  Besides  and 
beyond  this  Thoreau  had  a  genius  for  intercourse  with 
humbler  companions.  There  have  been  few  instances  in 
history  of  such  perfect  understanding  as  existed  between 
him  and  the  lower  orders  of  creation.  It  has  been  said  of 
him :  "  Every  fact  which  occurs  in  the  bed  [of  the  Concord 


"          .      ^^ 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  163 

River],  on  the  banks,  or  in  the  air  over  it ;  the  fishes,  and 
their  spawning  and  nests,  their  manners,  their  food ;  the 
shad-flies  which  fill  the  air  on  a  certain  evening  once  a  year, 
and  which  are  snapped  at  by  the  fishes  so  ravenously  that 
many  of  these  die  of  repletion,  the  conical  heaps  of  small 
stones  on  the  river-shallows,  one  of  which  heaps  will  some 
times  overfill  a  cart,  —  these  heaps  the  huge  nests  of  small 
fishes,  —  the  birds  which  frequent  the  stream,  heron,  duck, 
sheldrake,  loon,  osprey ;  the  snake,  muskrat,  otter,  wood- 
chuck,  and  fox  on  the  banks;  the  turtle,  frog,  hyla,  and 
cricket  which  made  the  banks  vocal,  —  were  all  known  to 
him,  and,  as  it  were,  townsmen  and  fellow-creatures.  .  .  . 
His  power  of  observation  seemed  to  indicate  additional 
senses.  He  saw  as  with  microscrope,  heard  as  with  ear- 
trumpet,  and  his  memory  was  a  photographic  register  of 
all  he  saw  and  heard.  .  .  .  His  intimacy  with  animals  sug 
gested  what  Thomas  Fuller  records  of  Butler  the  apiolo- 
gist,  that  '  either  he  had  told  the  bees  things  or  the  bees 
had  told  him  ; '  snakes  coiled  round  his  leg  ;  the  fishes  swam 
into  his  hand,  and  he  took  them  out  of  the  water  ;  he  pulled 
the  woodchuck  out  of  its  hole  by  the  tail,  and  took  the 
foxes  under  his  protection  from  the  hunters."  l 

Walden,  published  in  1854,  is  the  record  of  Thoreau's 
life  in  the  woods,  and  inasmuch  as  that  life  was  not  ex 
hausted  in  the  bare  provision  against  bodily  wants,  nor  in 
the  observation  even  of  what  lay  under  the  eye  and  ear,  but 
was  busied  about  the  questions  which  perplex  all  who  would 
give  an  account  of  themselves,  the  record  mingles  common 
fact  and  personal  experience,  the  world  without  and  the 
world  within.  Thoreau  records  what  he  sees  and  hears  in 
the  woods,  but  these  sights  and  sounds  are  the  texts  for 
sermons  upon  human  life.  He  undertook  to  get  at  the  ele 
mentary  conditions  of  living,  and  to  strip  himself  as  far  as 
he  could  of  all  that  was  unnecessary.  In  doing  this  he  dis 
covered  many  curious  and  ingenious  things,  and  the  unique 
1  Emerson's  Biographical  Sketch. 


164  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

method  which  he  took  was  pretty  sure  to  give  him  glimpses 
of  life  not  seen  by  others.  But  the  method  had  its  disad 
vantages,  and  chiefly  this,  that  it  was  against  the  common 
order  of  things,  and  therefore  the  results  reached  could  not 
be  relied  upon  as  sound  and  wholesome. 

The  great  value  of  Walden,  and  indeed  of  all  Thoreau's 
books,  is  not  in  the  philosophy,  which  is  often  shrewd  and 
often  strained  and  arbitrary,  but  in  the  disclosure  made  of 
the  common  facts  of  the  world  about  one.  He  used  to  say, 
"I  think  nothing  is  to  be  hoped  from  you,  if  this  bit  of 
mould  under  your  feet  is  not  sweeter  to  you  to  eat  than  any 
other  in  this  world,  or  in  any  world ;  "  and  the  whole  drift 
of  his  writing  is  toward  the  development  of  the  individual 
in  the  place  where  he  happens  to  be.  Thoreau's  protesting 
attitude,  and  the  stout  resistance  which  he  made  to  all  in 
fluences  about  him  except  the  common  ones  of  nature,  be 
tray  themselves  in  the  style  of  his  writing.  He  has  a  way, 
almost  insolent,  of  throwing  out  his  thoughts,  and  growling 
forth  his  objections  to  the  conventions  of  life,  which  ren 
ders  his  writing  often  crabbed  and  inartistic.  There  is  a 
rudeness  which  seems  sometimes  affected,  and  a  carelessness 
which  is  contemptuous.  Yet  often  his  indifference  to  style 
is  a  rugged  insistence  on  the  strongest  thought,  and  in  his 
effort  to  express  himself  unreservedly  he  reaches  a  force 
and  energy  which  are  refreshing. 

A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers  and 
Walden  were  the  only  writings  of  Thoreau  published  in 
his  lifetime.  He  printed  contributions  to  the  magazines 
from  time  to  time,  and  out  of  these  and  his  manuscripts 
have  been  gathered  eight  other  volumes,  Excursions  in  Field 
and  Forest,  The  Maine  Woods,  Cape  Cod,  Letters  to  Va 
rious  Persons,  A  Yankee  in  Canada,  Early  Spring  in 
Massachusetts,  Summer  and  Winter.  To  Excursions  was 
prefixed  a  biographical  sketch  by  R.  W.  Emerson,  which 
gives  one  a  very  vivid  portrait  of  this  unique  man.  Cape 
Cod,  which  is  the  record  of  a  walk  taken  the  length  of  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  165 

Cape,  and  Walden  are  likely  to  remain  as  the  most  finished 
and  agreeable  of  Thoreau's  books.  All  of  his  writings, 
however,  will  be  searched  for  the  evidence  which  they  give 
of  a  mind  singular  for  its  independence,  its  resolute  con 
fronting  of  the  problems  of  life,  its  insight  into  nature,  its 
Violation,  and  its  waywardness. 


WILD  APPLES. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

IT  is  remarkable  how  closely  the  history  of  the 
Apple-tree  is  connected  with  that  of  man.  The  geolo 
gist  tells  us  that  the  order  of  the  fiosacece,  which 
includes  the  Apple,  also  the  true  Grasses,  and  the 
Labiatce^  or  Mints,  were  introduced  only  a  short  time 
previous  to  the  appearance  of  man  on  the  globe. 

It  appears  that  apples  made  a  part  of  the  food  of 
that  unknown  primitive  people  whose  traces  have 
lately  been  found  at  the  bottom  of  the  Swiss  lakes, 
supposed  to  be  older  than  the  foundation  of  Borne,  so 
old  that  they  had  no  metallic  implements.  An  entire 
black  and  shrivelled  Crab-Apple  has  been  recovered 
from  their  stores. 

Tacitus  says  of  the  ancient  Germans  that  they  sat 
isfied  their  hunger  with  wild  apples,  among  other 
things. 

Niebuhr l  observes  that  "  the  words  for  a  house,  a 
field,  a  plough,  ploughing,  wine,  oil,  milk,  sheep, 
apples,  and  others  relating  to  agriculture  and  the  gen 
tler  ways  of  life,  agree  in  Latin  and  Greek,  while  the 
Latin  words  for  all  objects  pertaining  to  war  or  the 
chase  are  utterly  alien  from  the  Greek."  Thus  the 
apple-tree  may  be  considered  a  symbol  of  peace  no 
less  than  the  olive. 

1  A  Germaii  historical  critic  of  ancient  life. 


WILD  APPLES.  161 

The  apple  was  early  so  important,  and  so  generally 
distributed,  that  its  name  traced  to  its  root  in  many 
languages  signifies  fruit  in  general.  MJ}\OV  [Melon], 
in  Greek,  means  an  apple,  also  the  fruit  of  other 
trees,  also  a  sheep  and  any  cattle,  and  finally  riches  in 
general. 

The  apple-tree  has  been  celebrated  by  the  Hebrews, 
Greeks,  Romans,  and  Scandinavians.  Some  have 
thought  that  the  first  human  pair  were  tempted  by  its 
fruit.  Goddesses  are  fabled  to  have  contended  for  it, 
dragons  were  set  to  watch  it,  and  heroes  were  em 
ployed  to  pluck  it.1 

The  tree  is  mentioned  in  at  least  three  places  in  the 
Old  Testament,  and  its  fruit  in  two  or  three  more. 
Solomon  sings,  "As  the  apple-tree  among  the  trees 
of  the  wood,  so  is  my  beloved  among  the  sons."  And 
again,  "  Stay  me  with  flagons,  comfort  me  with  ap 
ples."  The  noblest  part  of  man's  noblest  feature  is 
named  from  this  fruit,  "  the  apple  of  the  eye." 

The  apple-tree  is  also  mentioned  by  Homer  and 
Herodotus.  Ulysses  saw  in  the  glorious  garden  of 
Alcinoiis  "pears  and  pomegranates  and  apple-trees 
bearing  beautiful  fruit."  And  according  to  Homer, 
apples  were  among  the  fruits  which  Tantalus  could 
not  pluck,  the  wind  ever  blowing  their  boughs  away 
from  him.  Theophrastus  knew  and  described  the 
apple-tree  as  a  botanist. 

According  to  the  prose  Edda,2  "  Iduna  keeps  in  a 
box  the  apples  which  the  gods,  when  they  feel  old  age 
approaching,  have  only  to  taste  of  to  become  young 
again.  It  is  in  this  manner  that  they  will  be  kept  in 

1  The  Greek  myths  especially  referred  to  are  The  Choice  ol 
Paris  and  The  Apples  of  the  Hesperides. 
a  The  stories  of  the  early  bcaiidiuaviaua. 


168  HENRY  DAVID  THOEEAU. 

renovated  youth  until  Ragnarok  "  (or  the  destruction 
of  the  Gods). 

I  learn  from  Loudon1  that  "the  ancient  Welsh 
bards  were  rewarded  for  excelling  in  song  by  the 
token  of  the  apple-spray ;"  and  "in  the  Highlands 
of  Scotland  the  apple-tree  is  the  badge  of  the  clan 
Lamont." 

The  apple-tree  belongs  chiefly  to  the  northern  tem 
perate  zone.  Loudon  says,  that  "  it  grows  spontane 
ously  in  every  part  of  Europe  except  the  frigid  zone, 
and  throughout  Western  Asia,  China  and  Japan." 
We  have  also  two  or  three  varieties  of  the  apple  indi 
genous  in  North  America.  The  cultivated  apple-tree 
was  first  introduced  into  this  country  by  the  earliest 
settlers,  and  is  thought  to  do  as  well  or  better  here 
than  anywhere  else.  Probably  some  of  the  varieties 
which  are  now  cultivated  were  first  introduced  into 
Britain  by  the  Romans. 

Pliny,  adopting  the  distinction  of  Theophrastus, 
«ays,  "  Of  trees  there  are  some  which  are  altogether 
wild,  some  more  civilized."  Theophrastus  includes 
the  apple  among  the  last ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  in  this 
sense  the  most  civilized  of  all  trees.  It  is  as  harmless 
AS  a  dove,  as  beautiful  as  a  rose,  and  as  valuable  as 
flocks  and  herds.  It  has  been  longer  cultivated  than 
liny  other,  and  so  is  more  humanized ;  and  who  knows 
but,  like  the  dog,  it  will  at  length  be  no  longer  trace 
able  to  its  wild  original?  It  migrates  with  man,  like 
the  dog  and  horse  and  cow ;  first,  perchance,  from 
Greece  to  Italy,  thence  to  England,  thence  to  America  ; 
and  our  Western  emigrant  is  still  marching  steadily 
toward  the  setting  sun  with  the  seeds  of  the  apple  in 

1  An  English  authority  on  the  culture  of  orchards  and  gar* 

•MM. 


WILD  APPLES.  169 

his  pocket,  or  perhaps  a  few  young  trees  strapped  to 
his  load.  At  least  a  million  apple-trees  are  thus  set 
farther  westward  this  year  than  any  cultivated  ones 
grew  last  year.  Consider  how  the  Blossom-Week, 
like  the  Sabbath,  is  thus  annually  spreading  over  the 
prairies ;  for  when  man  migrates  he  carries  with  him 
not  only  his  birds,  quadrupeds,  insects,  vegetables, 
and  his  very  sward,  but  his  orchard  also. 

The  leaves  and  tender  twigs  are  an  agreeable  food 
to  many  domestic  animals,  as  the  cow,  horse,  sheep, 
and  goat ;  and  the  fruit  is  sought  after  by  the  first, 
as  well  as  by  the  hog.  Thus  there  appears  to  have 
existed  a  natural  alliance  between  these  animals  and 
this  tree  from  the  first.  "  The  fruit  of  the  Crab  in  the 
forests  of  France  "  is  said  to  be  "  a  great  resource  for 
the  wild  boar." 

Not  only  the  Indian,  but  many  indigenous  insects, 
birds,  and  quadrupeds,  welcomed  the  apple-tree  to 
these  shores.  The  tent-caterpillar  saddled  her  eggs  on 
the  very  first  twig  that  was  formed,  and  it  has  since 
shared  her  affections  with  the  wild  cherry ;  and  the 
canker-worm  also  in  a  measure  abandoned  the  elm  to 
feed  on  it.  As  it  grew  apace,  the  bluebird,  robin, 
cherry-bird,  king-bird,  and  many  more,  came  with 
haste  and  built  their  nests  and  warbled  in  its  boughs, 
and  so  became  orchard-birds,  and  multiplied  more 
than  ever.  It  was  an  era  in  the  history  of  their  race. 
The  downy  woodpecker  found  such  a  savory  morsel 
under  its  bark,  that  he  perforated  it  in  a  ring  quite 
round  the  tree  before  he  left  it,  —  a  thing  which  he 
had  never  done  before,  to  my  knowledge.  It  did  not 
take  the  partridge  long  to  find  out  how  sweet  its  buds 
were,  and  every  winter  eve  she  flew,  and  still  flies, 
from  the  wood,  to  pluck  them,  much  to  the  farmer's 


170  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

sorrow.  The  rabbit,  too,  was  not  slow  to  learn  the 
taste  of  its  twigs  and  bark ;  and  when  the  fruit  was 
ripe,  the  squirrel  half -rolled,  half -carried  it  to  his  hole ; 
and  even  the  musquash  crept  up  the  bank  from  the 
brook  at  evening,  and  greedily  devoured  it,  until  he 
had  worn  a  path  in  the  grass  there ;  and  when  it  was 
frozen  and  thawed,  the  crow  and  the  jay  were  glad  to 
taste  it  occasionally.  The  owl  crept  into  the  first 
apple-tree  that  became  hollow,  and  fairly  hooted  with 
delight,  finding  it  just  the  place  for  him  ;  so,  settling 
down  into  it,  he  has  remained  there  ever  since. 

My  theme  being  the  Wild  Apple,  I  will  merely 
glance  at  some  of  the  seasons  in  the  annual  growth  of 
the  cultivated  apple,  and  pass  on  to  my  special  prov 
ince. 

The  flowers  of  the  apple  are  perhaps  the  most  beau 
tiful  of  any  tree,  so  copious  and  so  delicious  to  both 
sight  and  scent.  The  walker  is  frequently  tempted  to 
turn  and  linger  near  some  more  than  usually  hand 
some  one,  whose  blossoms  are  two  thirds  expanded. 
How  superior  it  is  in  these  respects  to  the  pear,  whose 
blossoms  are  neither  colored  nor  fragrant ! 

By  the  middle  of  July,  green  apples  are  so  large  as 
to  remind  us  of  coddling,  and  of  the  autumn.  The 
sward  is  commonly  strewed  with  little  ones  which  fall 
still-born,  as  it  were,  —  Nature  thus  thinning  them  for 
us.  The  Koman  writer  Palladius  said :  "  If  apples 
are  inclined  to  fall  before  their  time,  a  stone  placed  in 
a  split  root  will  retain  them."  Some  such  notion,  still 
surviving,  may  account  for  some  of  the  stones  which 
we  see  placed  to  be  overgrown  in  the  forks  of  trees 
They  have  a  saying  in  Suffolk,  England,  — 

*  At  Michaelmas  time,  or  a  little  before, 
Half  aii  apple  goes  to  the  core." 


WILD  APPLES.  171 

Early  apples  begin  to  be  ripe  about  the  first  of 
August ;  but  I  think  that  none  of  them  are  so  good 
to  eat  as  some  to  smell.  One  is  worth  more  to  scent 
your  handkerchief  with  than  any  perfume  which  they 
sell  in  the  shops.  The  fragrance  of  some  fruits  is  not 
to  be  forgotten,  along  with  that  of  flowers.  Some 
gnarly  apple  which  I  pick  up  in  the  road  reminds  me 
by  its  fragrance  of  all  the  wealth  of  Pomona,1  —  car 
rying  me  forward  to  those  days  when  they  will  be 
collected  in  golden  and  ruddy  heaps  in  the  orchards 
and  about  the  cider-mills. 

A  week  or  two  later,  as  you  are  going  by  orchards 
or  gardens,  especially  in  the  evenings,  you  pass  through 
a  little  region  possessed  by  the  fragrance  of  ripe  ap 
ples,  and  thus  enjoy  them  without  price,  and  without 
robbing  anybody. 

There  is  thus  about  all  natural  products  a  certain 
volatile  and  ethereal  quality  which  represents  their 
highest  value,  and  which  cannot  be  vulgarized,  or 
bought  and  sold.  No  mortal  has  ever  enjoyed  the  per 
fect  flavor  of  any  fruit,  and  only  the  godlike  among 
men  begin  to  taste  its  ambrosial  qualities.  For  nectar 
and  ambrosia  are  only  those  fine  flavors  of  every 
earthly  fruit  which  our  coarse  palates  fail  to  perceive, 
—  just  as  we  occupy  the  heaven  of  the  gods  without 
knowing  it.  When  I  see  a  particularly  mean  man 
carrying  a  load  of  fair  and  fragrant  early  apples  to 
market,  I  seem  to  see  a  contest  going  on  between  him 
and  his  horse,  on  the  one  side,  and  the  apples  on  the 
other,  and,  to  my  mind,  the  apples  always  gain  it. 
Pliny  says  that  apples  are  the  heaviest  of  all  things, 
and  that  the  oxen  begin  to  sweat  at  the  mere  sight  of 
ft  load  of  them.  Our  driver  begins  to  lose  his  load 
1  The  Roman  goddess  of  fruit  and  fruit-trees. 


172  VKNRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

the  moment  he  tries  to  transport  them  to  where  they 
do  not  belong,  that  is,  to  any  but  the  most  beautiful. 
Though  he  gets  out  from  time  to  time,  and  feels  of 
them,  and  thinks  they  are  all  there,  I  see  the  stream 
<>f  their  evanescent  and  celestial  qualities  going  to 
/leaven  from  his  cart,  while  the  pulp  and  skin  and 
?ore  only  are  going  to  market.  They  are  not  apples, 
but  pomace.  Are  not  these  still  Iduna's  apples,  the 
taste  of  which  keeps  the  gods  forever  young?  and 
think  you  that  they  will  let  Loki  or  Thjassi  carry 
them  off  to  Jotunheim,1  while  they  grow  wrinkled  and 
gray  ?  No,  for  Ragnarok,  or  the  destruction  of  the 
gods,  is  not  yet. 

There  is  another  thinning  of  the  fruit,  commonly 
near  the  end  of  August  or  in  September,  when  the 
ground  is  strewn  with  windfalls;  and  this  happens 
especially  when  high  winds  occur  after  rain.  In  some 
orchards  you  may  see  fully  three  quarters  of  the  whole 
crop  on  the  ground,  lying  in  a  circular  form  beneath 
the  trees,  yet  hard  and  green,  —  or,  if  it  is  a  hillside, 
rolled  far  down  the  hill.  However,  it  is  an  ill  wind 
that  blows  nobody  any  good.  All  the  country  over, 
people  are  busy  picking  up  the  windfalls,  and  this 
will  make  them  cheap  for  early  apple-pies. 

In  October,  the  leaves  falling,  the  apples  are  more 
distinct  on  the  trees.  I  saw  one  year  in  a  neighboring 
town  some  trees  fuller  of  fruit  than  I  remember  to 
have  ever  seen  before,  small  yellow  apples  hanging 
over  the  road.  The  branches  were  gracefully  droop 
ing  with  their  weight,  like  a  barberry-bush,  so  that 

1  Jotunheim  (Ye(r)if^un-hime)  in  Scandinavian  mythology  was 
the  home  of  the  Jotun  or  Giants.  Loki  was  a  descendant  of  the 
gods,  and  a  companion  of  the  Giuiits.  Thjassi  ( Tee-assy)  wa» 
a  giant. 


WILD  APPLES.  173 

the  whole  tree  acquired  a  new  character.  Even  the 
topmost  branches,  instead  of  standing  erect,  spread 
and  drooped  in  all  directions ;  and  there  were  so  many 
poles  supporting  the  lower  ones,  that  they  looked  lik* 
pictures  of  banian-trees.  As  an  old  English  manu 
script  says,  "The  mo  appelen  the  tree  bereth  the, 
more  sche  boweth  to  the  folk." 

Surely  the  apple  is  the  noblest  of  fruits.  Let  the 
most  beautiful  or  the  swiftest  have  it.  That  should 
be  the  "  going  "  price  of  apples. 

Between  the  fifth  and  twentieth  of  October  I  see 
the  barrels  lie  under  the  trees.  And  perhaps  I  talk 
with  one  who  is  selecting  some  choice  barrels  to  fulfil 
an  order.  He  turns  a  specked  one  over  many  times 
before  he  leaves  it  out.  If  I  were  to  tell  what  is  pass 
ing  in  my  mind,  I  should  say  that  every  one  was 
specked  which  he  had  handled ;  for  he  rubs  off  all  the 
bloom,  and  those  fugacious  ethereal  qualities  leave  it. 
Cool  evenings  prompt  the  farmers  to  make  haste,  and 
at  length  I  see  only  the  ladders  here  and  there  left 
leaning  against  the  trees. 

It  would  be  well  if  we  accepted  these  gifts  with 
more  joy  and  gratitude,  and  did  not;  think  it  enough 
simply  to  put  a  fresh  load  of  compost  about  the  tree. 
Some  old  English  customs  are  suggestive  at  least.  I 
find  them  described  chiefly  in  Brand's  "  Popular  An 
tiquities."  It  appears  that  "on  Christmas  eve  the 
farmers  and  their  men  in  Devonshire  take  a  large 
bowl  of  cider,  with  a  toast  in  it,  and  carrying  it  in 
state  to  the  orchard,  they  salute  the  apple-trees  with 
much  ceremony,  in  order  to  make  them  bear  well  the 
next  season."  This  salutation  consists  in  "  throwing 
some  of  the  cider  about  the  roots  of  the  tree,  placing 
bits  of  the  toast  on  the  branches,"  and  then,  "  encir- 


174  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

cling  one  of  the  best  bearing  trees  in  the  orchard, 
they  drink  the  following  toast  three  several  times :  — 

" '  Here  's  to  there,  old  apple-tree, 

Whence  thou  mayst  bud,  and  whence  thou  mayst  blow, 
And  whence  thou  mayst  bear  apples  enow  1 
Hats-full!  caps-full! 
Bushel,  bushel,  sacks-full ! 
And  my  pockets  full,  too  I     Hurra! ' " 

Also  what  was  called  "  apple-howling "  used  to  be 
practised  in  various  counties  of  England  on  New- 
Year's  eve.  A  troop  of  boys  visited  the  different 
orchards,  and,  encircling  the  apple-trees,  repeated  the 
following  words :  — 

"  Stand  fast,  root !  bear  well,  top ! 
Pray  God  send  us  a  good  howling  crop : 
Every  twig,  apples  big  ; 
Every  bow,  apples  enow  1 " 

"  They  then  shout  in  chorus,  one  of  the  boys  accom 
panying  them  on  a  cow's  horn.  During  this  cere 
mony  they  rap  the  trees  with  their  sticks."  This  is 
called  *'  wassailing  "  the  trees,  and  is  thought  by  some 
to  be  "a  relic  of  the  heathen  sacrifice  to  Pomona." 

Herrick  sings,  — 

"  Wassaile  the  trees  that  they  may  beare 
You  many  a  plum  and  many  a  peare  ; 
For  more  or  less  fruits  they  will  bring 
As  you  so  give  them  wassailing." 

Our  poets  have  as  yet  a  better  right  to  sing  of  cider 
than  of  wine  ;  but  it  behooves  them  to  sing  better  than 
English  Phillips  did,  else  they  will  do  no  credit  to 
their  Muse. 

THE  WILD  APPLE. 

So  much  for  the  more  civilized  apple-trees  (urbaf 
mores,  as  Pliny  calls  them).  I  love  better  to  go 


WILD  APPLES.  175 

through  the  old  orchards  of  ungrafted  apple-trees,  at 
whatever  season  of  the  year,  —  so  irregularly  planted : 
sometimes  two  trees  standing  close  together ;  and  the 
rows  so  devious  that  you  would  think  that  they  not 
only  had  grown  while  the  owner  was  sleeping,  but  had 
been  set  out  by  him  in  a  somnambulic  state.  The 
rows  of  grafted  fruit  will  never  tempt  me  to  wander 
amid  them  like  these.  But  I  now,  alas,  speak  rather 
from  memory  than  from  any  recent  experience,  such 
ravages  have  been  made  I 

Some  soils,  like  a  rocky  tract  called  the  Easter- 
brooks  Country  in  my  neighborhood,  are  so  suited  to 
the  apple,  that  it  will  grow  faster  in  them  without  any 
care,  or  if  only  the  ground  is  broken  up  once  a  year, 
than  it  will  in  many  places  with  any  amount  of  care. 
The  owners  of  this  tract  allow  that  the  soil  is  excel 
lent  for  fruit,  but  they  say  that  it  is  so  rocky  that 
they  have  not  patience  to  plough  it,  and  that,  together 
with  the  distance,  is  the  reason  why  it  is  not  culti 
vated.  There  are,  or  were  recently,  extensive  or 
chards  there  standing  without  order.  Nay,  they  spring 
up  wild  and  bear  well  there  in  the  midst  of  pines, 
birches,  maples,  and  oaks.  I  am  often  surprised  to 
see  rising  amid  these  trees  the  rounded  tops  of  apple- 
trees  glowing  with  red  or  yellow  fruit,  in  harmony 
with  the  autumnal  tints  of  the  forest. 

Going  up  the  side  of  a  cliff  about  the  first  of  No 
vember,  I  saw  a  vigorous  young  apple-tree,  which, 
planted  by  birds  or  cows,  had  shot  up  amid  the  rocks 
and  open  woods  there,  and  had  now  much  fruit  on  it, 
uninjured  by  the  frosts,  when  all  cultivated  apples  were 
gathered.  It  was  a  rank  wild  growth,  with  many  green 
leaves  on  it  still,  and  made  an  impression  of  thorni- 
ness.  The  fruit  was  hard  and  green,  but  looked  as  if 


176  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU. 

it  would  be  palatable  in  the  winter.  Some  was  dan 
gling  on  the  twigs,  but  more  half-buried  in  the  wet 
leaves  under  the  tree,  or  rolled  far  down  the  hill  amid 
the  rocks.  The  owner  knows  nothing  of  it.  The 
day  was  not  observed  when  it  first  blossomed,  nor 
when  it  first  bore  fruit,  unless  by  the  chickadee. 
There  was  no  dancing  on  the  green  beneath  it  in  its 
honor,  and  now  there  is  no  hand  to  pluck  its  fruit,  — 
which  is  only  gnawed  by  squirrels,  as  I  perceive.  It 
has  done  double  duty,  —  not  only  borne  this  crop,  but 
each  twig  has  grown  a  foot  into  the  air.  And  this  is 
such  fruit !  bigger  than  many  berries,  we  must  admit, 
and  carried  home  will  be  sound  and  palatable  next 
spring.  What  care  I  for  Iduna's  apples  so  long  as  I 
can  get  these  ? 

When  I  go  by  this  shrub  thus  late  and  hardy,  and 
see  its  dangling  fruit,  I  respect  the  tree,  and  I  am 
grateful  for  Nature's  bounty,  even  though  I  cannot 
eat  it.  Here  on  this  rugged  and  woody  hillside  has 
grown  an  apple-tree,  not  planted  by  man,  no  relic  of 
a  former  orchard,  but  a  natural  growth,  like  the  pines 
and  oaks.  Most  fruits  which  we  prize  and  use  de 
pend  entirely  on  our  care.  Corn  and  grain,  potatoes, 
peaches,  melons,  etc.,  depend  altogether  on  our  plant 
ing  ;  but  the  apple  emulates  man's  independence  and 
enterprise.  It  is  not  simply  carried,  as  I  have  said, 
but,  like  him,  to  some  extent,  it  has  migrated  to  thif 
New  World,  and  is  even,  here  and  there,  making  its 
way  amid  the  aboriginal  trees ;  just  as  the  ox  and 
dog  and  horse  sometimes  run  wild  and  maintain  them* 
selves. 

Even  the  sourest  and  crabbedest  apple,  growing  in 
the  most  unfavorable  position,  suggests  such  thoughts 
as  these,  it  is  so  noble  a  fruit. 


WILD  APPLES.  17? 


THE  CRAB. 

Nevertheless,  our  wild  apple  is  wild  only  like  myself, 
perchance,  who  belong  not  to  the  aboriginal  race  here, 
but  have  strayed  into  the  woods  from  the  cultivated 
stock.  Wilder  still,  as  I  have  said,  there  grows  else 
where  in  this  country  a  native  and  aboriginal  Crab- 
Apple,  "  whose  nature  has  not  yet  been  modified  by 
cultivation."  It  is  found  from  Western  New  York  to 
Minnesota  and  southward.  Michaux1  says  that  its 
ordinary  height  "  is  fifteen  or  eighteen  feet,  but  it  is 
sometimes  found  twenty-five  or  thirty  feet  high,"  and 
that  the  large  ones  "exactly  resemble  the  common 
apple-tree."  "The  flowers  are  white  mingled  with 
rose-color,  and  are  collected  in  corymbs."  They  are 
remarkable  for  their  delicious  odor.  The  fruit,  ac 
cording  to  him,  is  about  an  inch  and  a  half  in  diame 
ter,  and  is  intensely  acid.  Yet  they  make  fine  sweet 
meats,  and  also  cider  of  them.  He  concludes,  that 
"if,  on  being  cultivated,  it  does  not  yield  new  and 
palatable  varieties,  it  will  at  least  be  celebrated  for 
the  beauty  of  its  flowers,  and  for  the  sweetness  of  its 
perfume." 

I  never  saw  the  Crab- Apple  till  May,  1861.  I  had 
heard  of  it  through  Michaux,  but  more  modern  bot 
anists,  so  far  as  I  know,  have  not  treated  it  as  of  any 
peculiar  importance.  Thus  it  was  a  half-fabulous  tree 
to  me.  I  contemplated  a  pilgrimage  to  the  "  Glades," 
a  portion  of  Pennsylvania,  where  it  was  said  to  grow 
to  perfection.  I  thought  of  sending  to  a  nursery  for 
it,  but  doubted  if  they  had  it,  or  would  distinguish  it 
from  European  varieties.  At  last  I  had  occasion  to 
go  to  Minnesota,  and  on  entering  Michigan  I  began 
1  Pronounced  mee-sW  ;  a  French  botanist  and  traveller. 


178  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

to  notice  from  the  cars  a  tree  with  handsome  rose- 
colored  flowers.  At  first  I  thought  it  some  variety  of 
thorn ;  but  it  was  not  long  before  the  truth  flashed  on 
me,  that  this  was  my  long-sought  Crab-Apple.  It 
was  the  prevailing  flowering  shrub  or  tree  to  be  seen 
from  the  cars  at  that  season  of  the  year,  —  about  the 
middle  of  May.  But  the  cars  never  stopped  before 
one,  and  so  I  was  launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  Mis 
sissippi  without  having  touched  one,  experiencing  the 
fate  of  Tantalus.  On  arriving  at  St.  Anthony's  Falls, 
I  was  sorry  to  be  told  that  I  was  too  far  north  for  the 
Crab-Apple.  Nevertheless  I  succeeded  in  finding  it 
about  eight  miles  west  of  the  Falls ;  touched  it  and 
smelled  it,  and  secured  a  lingering  corymb  of  flowers 
for  my  herbarium.  This  must  have  been  near  its 
northern  limit. 

HOW  THE  WILD  APPLE  GROWS. 

But  though  these  are  indigenous,  like  the  Indians, 
I  doubt  whether  they  are  any  hardier  than  those  back 
woodsmen  among  the  apple-trees,  which,  though  de 
scended  from  cultivated  stocks,  plant  themselves  in 
distant  fields  and  forests,  where  the  soil  is  favorable 
to  them.  I  know  of  no  trees  which  have  more  diffi 
culties  to  contend  with,  and  which  more  sturdily  resist 
their  foes.  These  are  the  ones  whose  story  we  have 
to  tell.  It  oftentimes  reads  thus  :  — 

Near  the  beginning  of  May,  we  notice  little  thickets 
of  apple-trees  just  springing  up  in  the  pastures  where 
cattle  have  been,  —  as  the  rocky  ones  of  our  Easter- 
brooks  Country,  or  the  top  of  Nobscot  Hill  in  Sud- 
bury.  One  or  two  of  these  perhaps  survive  the 
drought  and  other  accidents,  —  their  very  birthplace 
defending  them  against  the  encroaching  grass  and 
some  other  dangers,  at  first. 


WILD  APPLES.  179 

In  two  years'  time  't  had  thus 
Reached  the  level  of  the  rocks, 

Admired  the  stretching  world, 
Nor  feared  the  wandering  flocks. 

But  at  this  tender  age 

Its  sufferings  began  : 
There  came  a  browsing  ox 

And  cut  it  down  a  span. 

This  time,  perhaps,  the  ox  does  not  notice  it  amid  the 
grass ;  but  the  next  year,  when  it  has  grown  more 
stout,  he  recognizes  it  for  a  fellow-emigrant  from  the 
old  country,  the  flavor  of  whose  leaves  and  twigs  he 
well  knows ;  and  though  at  first  he  pauses  to  welcome 
it,  and  express  his  surprise,  and  gets  for  answer,  "  The 
same  cause  that  brought  you  here  brought  me,"  he 
nevertheless  browses  it  again,  reflecting,  it  may  be, 
that  he  has  some  title  to  it. 

Thus  cut  down  annually,  it  does  not  despair ;  but, 
putting  forth  two  short  twigs  for  every  one  cut  off,  it 
spreads  out  low  along  the  ground  in  the  hollows  or 
between  the  rocks,  growing  more  stout  and  scrubby, 
until  it  forms,  not  a  tree  as  yet,  but  a  little  pyramidal, 
stiff,  twiggy  mass,  almost  as  solid  and  impenetrable 
as  a  rock.  Some  of  the  densest  and  most  impenetra 
ble  clumps  of  bushes  that  I  have  ever  seen,  as  well 
on  account  of  the  closeness  and  stubbornness  of  their 
branches  as  of  their  thorns,  have  been  these  wild-apple 
scrubs.  They  are  more  like  the  scrubby  fir  and  black 
spruce  on  which  you  stand,  and  sometimes  walk,  on 
the  tops  of  mountains,  where  cold  is  the  demon  they 
contend  with,  than  anything  else.  No  wonder  they 
are  prompted  to  grow  thorns  at  last,  to  defend  them 
selves  against  such  foes.  In  their  thorniness,  how 
ever,  there  is  no  malice,  only  some  malic  acid. 


180  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

The  rocky  pastures  of  the  tract  I  have  referred  t% 
—  for  they  maintain  their  ground  best  in  a  rocky 
field  —  are  thickly  sprinkled  with  these  little  tufts, 
reminding  you  often  of  some  rigid  gray  mosses  or 
lichens,  and  you  see  thousands  of  little  trees  just 
springing  up  between  them,  with  the  seed  still  at 
tached  to  them. 

Being  regularly  clipped  all  around  each  year  by  the 
cows,  as  a  hedge  with  shears,  they  are  often  of  a  per 
fect  conical  or  pyramidal  form,  from  one  to  four  feet 
high,  and  more  or  less  sharp,  as  if  trimmed  by  the 
gardener's  art.  In  the  pastures  on  Nobscot  Hill  and 
its  spurs  they  make  fine  dark  shadows  when  the  sun 
is  low.  They  are  also  an  excellent  covert  from  hawks 
for  many  small  birds  that  roost  and  build  in  them. 
Whole  flocks  perch  in  them  at  night,  and  I  have  seen 
three  robins'  nests  in  one  which  was  six  feet  in  dia 
meter. 

No  doubt  many  of  these  are  already  old  trees,  if 
you  reckon  from  the  day  they  were  planted,  but  in 
fants  still  when  you  consider  their  development  and 
the  long  life  before  them.  I  counted  the  annual  rings 
of  some  which  were  just  one  foot  high,  and  as  wide  as 
high,  and  found  that  they  were  about  twelve  years 
old,  but  quite  sound  and  thrifty  !  They  were  so  low 
that  they  were  unnoticed  by  the  walker,  while  many 
of  their  contemporaries  from  the  nurseries  were  al 
ready  bearing  considerable  crops.  But  what  you  gain 
in  time  is  perhaps  in  this  case,  too,  lost  in  power,  — 
that  is,  in  the  vigor  of  the  tree.  This  is  their  pyram 
idal  state. 

The  cows  continue  to  browse  them  thus  for  twenty 
years  or  more,  keeping  them  down  and  compelling 
them  to  spread,  until  at  last  they  are  so  broad  that 


WILD  APPLES.  181 

they  become  their  own  fence,  when  some  interior 
shoot,  which  their  foes  cannot  reach,  darts  upward 
with  joy :  for  it  has  not  forgotten  its  high  calling,  and 
bears  its  own  peculiar  fruit  in  triumph. 

Such  are  the  tactics  by  which  it  finally  defeats  its 
bovine  foes.  Now,  if  you  have  watched  the  progress 
of  a  particular  shrub,  you  will  see  that  it  is  no  longer 
a  simple  pyramid  or  cone,  but  out  of  its  apex  there 
rises  a  sprig  or  two,  growing  more  lustily  perchance 
than  an  orchard-tree,  since  the  plant  now  devotes  the 
whole  of  its  repressed  energy  to  these  upright  parts. 
In  a  short  time  these  become  a  small  tree,  an  inverted 
pyramid  resting  on  the  apex  of  the  other,  so  that  the 
whole  has  now  the  form  of  a  vast  hour-glass.  The 
spreading  bottom,  having  served  its  purpose,  finally 
disappears,  and  the  generous  tree  permits  the  now 
harmless  cows  to  come  in  and  stand  in  its  shade,  and 
rub  against  and  redden  its  trunk,  which  has  grown  in 
spite  of  them,  and  even  to  taste  a  part  of  its  fruit,  and 
so  disperse  the  seed. 

Thus  the  cows  create  their  own  shade  and  food ; 
and  the  tree,  its  hour-glass  being  inverted,  lives  a  sec 
ond  life,  as  it  were. 

It  is  an  important  question  with  some  nowadays, 
whether  you  should  trim  young  apple-trees  as  high  as 
your  nose  or  as  high  as  your  eyes.  The  ox  trims 
them  up  as  high  as  he  can  reach,  and  that  is  about 
the  right  height,  I  think. 

In  spite  of  wandering  kine  and  other  adverse  cir 
cumstance,  that  despised  shrub,  valued  only  by  small 
birds  as  a  covert  and  shelter  from  hawks,  has  its 
blossom-week  at  last,  and  in  course  of  time  its  har 
vest,  sincere,  though  small. 

By  the  end  of  some  October,  when  its  leaves  have 


182  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

fallen,  I  frequently  see  such  a  central  sprig,  whose 
progress  I  have  watched,  when  I  thought  it  had  for 
gotten  its  destiny,  as  I  had,  bearing  its  first  crop  of 
small  green  or  yellow  or  rosy  fruit,  which  the  cows  can 
not  get  at  over  the  bushy  and  thorny  hedge  which  sur 
rounds  it ;  and  I  make  haste  to  taste  the  new  and  unde- 
scribed  variety.  We  have  all  heard  of  the  numerous 
varieties  of  fruit  invented  by  Van  Mons 1  and  Knight.2 
This  is  the  system  of  Van  Cow,  and  she  has  invented 
far  more  and  more  memorable  varieties  than  both  of 
them. 

Through  what  hardships  it  may  attain  to  bear  a 
sweet  fruit !  Though  somewhat  small,  it  may  prove 
equal,  if  not  superior,  in  flavor  to  that  which  has 
grown  in  a  garden,  —  will  perchance  be  all  the  sweeter 
and  more  palatable  for  the  very  difficulties  it  has  had  to 
contend  with.  Who  knows  but  this  chance  wild  fruit, 
planted  by  a  cow  or  a  bird  on  some  remote  and  rocky 
hillside,  where  it  is  as  yet  unobserved  by  man,  may  be 
the  choicest  of  all  its  kind,  and  foreign  potentates 
shall  hear  of  it,  and  royal  societies  seek  to  propagate 
it,  though  the  virtues  of  the  perhaps  truly  crabbed 
owner  of  the  soil  may  never  be  heard  of,  —  at  least, 
beyond  the  limits  of  his  village?  It  was  thus  the 
Porter  and  the  Baldwin  grew. 

Every  wild-apple  shrub  excites  our  expectation  thus, 
somewhat  as  every  wild  child.  It  is,  perhaps,  a  prince 
in  disguise.  What  a  lesson  to  man  !  So  are  human 
beings,  referred  to  the  highest  standard,  the  celestial 
fruit  which  they  suggest  and  aspire  to  bear,  browsed 
on  by  fate ;  and  only  the  most  persistent  and  strong 
est  genius  defends  itself  and  prevails,  sends  a  tender 

1  A  Belgian  chemist  and  horticulturist. 
*  An  English  vegetable  physiologist. 


WILD  APPLES.  183 

scion  upward  at  last,  and  drops  its  perfect  fruit  on 
the  ungrateful  earth.  Poets  and  philosophers  and 
statesmen  thus  spring  up  in  the  country  pastures,  and 
outlast  the  hosts  of  unoriginal  men. 

Such  is  always  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  The  ce 
lestial  fruits,  the  golden  apples  of  the  Hesperides,  are 
ever  guarded  by  a  hundred-headed  dragon  which  never 
sleeps,  so  that  it  is  an  herculean  labor  to  pluck  them. 

This  is  one  and  the  most  remarkable  way  in  which 
the  wild  apple  is  propagated  ;  but  commonly  it  springs 
up  at  wide  intervals  in  woods  and  swamps,  and  by  the 
sides  of  roads,  as  the  soil  may  suit  it,  and  grows  with 
comparative  rapidity.  Those  which  grow  in  dense 
woods  are  very  tall  and  slender.  I  frequently  pluck 
from  these  trees  a  perfectly  mild  and  tamed  fruit. 
As  Palladius  says,  "And  the  ground  is  strewn  with 
the  fruit  of  an  unbidden  apple-tree." 

It  is  an  old  notion,  that,  if  these  wild  trees  do  not 
bear  a  valuable  fruit  of  their  own,  they  are  the  best 
stocks  by  which  to  transmit  to  posterity  the  most  highly 
prized  qualities  of  others.  However,  I  am  not  in 
search  of  stocks,  but  the  wild  fruit  itself,  whose  fierce 
gust  has  suffered  no  "  inteneration."  It  is  not  my 

"  highest  plot 
To  plant  the  Bergamot." 

THE  FRUIT,  AND  ITS  FLAVOR. 

The  time  for  wild  apples  is  the  last  of  October  and 
the  first  of  November.  They  then  get  to  be  palatable, 
for  they  ripen  late,  and  they  are  still,  perhaps,  as 
beautiful  as  ever.  I  make  a  great  account  of  these 
fruits,  which  the  farmers  do  not  think  it  worth  the 
while  to  gather,  —  wild  flavors  of  the  Muse,  vivacious 
and  inspiriting.  The  farmer  thinks  that  he  has  better 


184  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

in  his  barrels ;  but  he  is  mistaken,  unless  he  has  a 
walker's  appetite  and  imagination,  neither  of  which 
can  he  have. 

Such  as  grow  quite  wild,  and  are  left  out  till  the 
first  of  November,  I  presume  that  the  owner  does  not 
mean  to  gather.  They  belong  to  children  as  wild  as 
themselves,  —  to  certain  active  boys  that  I  know,  — 
to  the  wild-eyed  woman  of  the  fields,  to  whom  nothing 
comes  amiss,  who  gleans  after  all  the  world,  —  and, 
moreover,  to  us  walkers.  We  have  met  with  them, 
and  they  are  ours.  These  rights,  long  enough  insisted 
upon,  have  come  to  be  an  institution  in  some  old 
countries,  where  they  have  learned  how  to  live.  I 
hear  that  "the  custom  of  grippling,  which  may  be 
called  apple-gleaning,  is,  or  was  formerly,  practised  in 
Herefordshire.  It  consists  in  leaving  a  few  apples, 
which  are  called  the  gripples,  on  every  tree,  after  the 
general  gathering,  for  the  boys,  who  go  with  climbing- 
poles  and  bags  to  collect  them." 

As  for  those  I  speak  of,  I  pluck  them  as  a  wild 
fruit,  native  to  this  quarter  of  the  earth,  —  fruit  of 
old  trees  that  have  been  dying  ever  since  I  was  a  boy 
and  are  not  yet  dead,  frequented  only  by  the  wood 
pecker  and  the  squirrel,  deserted  now  by  the  owner, 
who  has  not  faith  enough  to  look  under  their  boughs. 
Prom  the  appearance  of  the  tree-top,  at  a  little  dis 
tance,  you  would  expect  nothing  but  lichens  to  drop 
from  it,  but  your  faith  is  rewarded  by  finding  the 
ground  strewn  with  spirited  fruit,  —  some  of  it,  per 
haps,  collected  at  squirrel-holes,  with  the  marks  of  their 
teeth  by  which  they  carried  them,  —  some  containing 
a  cricket  or  two  silently  feeding  within,  and  some, 
especially  in  damp  days,  a  shelless  snail.  The  very 
•ticks  and  stones  lodged  in  the  tree-top  might  have 


WILD  APPLES.  186 

convinced  you  of  the  savoriness  of  the  fruit  which  has 
been  so  eagerly  sought  after  in  past  years. 

I  have  seen  no  account  of  these  among  the  "  Fruits 
and  Fruit-Trees  of  America,"  though  they  are  more 
memorable  to  my  taste  than  the  grafted  kinds ;  more 
racy  and  wild  American  flavors  do  they  possess,  when 
October  and  November,  when  December  and  January, 
and  perhaps  February  and  March  even,  have  assuaged 
them  somewhat.  An  old  farmer  in  my  neighborhood, 
who  always  selects  the  right  word,  says  that  "they 
have  a  kind  of  bow-arrow  tang." 

Apples  for  grafting  appear  to  have  been  selected 
commonly,  not  so  much  for  their  spirited  flavor,  aa 
for  their  mildness,  their  size,  and  bearing  qualities,  — 
not  so  much  for  their  beauty,  as  for  their  fairness  and 
soundness.  Indeed,  I  have  no  faith  in  the  selected 
lists  of  pomological  gentlemen.  Their  "  Favorites  " 
and  "  Non-suches  "  and  "  Seek-no-farthers,"  when  I 
have  fruited  them,  commonly  turn  out  very  tame  and 
forgetable.  They  are  eaten  with  comparatively  little 
zest,  and  have  no  real  tang  nor  smack  to  them. 

What  if  some  of  these  wildings  are  acrid  and  puck- 
ery,  genuine  verjuice,  do  they  not  still  belong  to  the 
Pomacece,  which  are  uniformly  innocent  and  kind  to 
our  race?  I  still  begrudge  them  to  the  cider-mill. 
Perhaps  they  are  not  fairly  ripe  yet. 

No  wonder  that  these  small  and  high-colored  apples 
are  thought  to  make  the  best  cider.  London  quotes 
from  the  Herefordshire  Report  that  "  apples  of  a 
small  size  are  always,  if  equal  in  quality,  to  be  pre 
ferred  to  those  of  a  larger  size,  in  order  that  the  rind 
and  kernel  may  bear  the  greatest  proportion  to  the 
pulp,  which  affords  the  weakest  and  most  watery 
juice."  And  he  says,  that,  "  to  prove  this,  Dr.  Sy- 


186  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

monds  of  Hereford,  about  the  year  1800,  made  one 
hogshead  of  cider  entirely  from  the  rinds  and  cores  of 
apples,  and  another  from  the  pulp  only,  when  the  first 
was  found  of  extraordinary  strength  and  flavor,  while 
the  latter  was  sweet  and  insipid." 

Evelyn l  says  that  the  "  Red-strake  "  was  the  favor 
ite  cider-apple  in  his  day  ;  and  he  quotes  one  Dr.  New- 
burg  as  saying,  "  In  Jersey  't  is  a  general  observation, 
as  I  hear,  that  the  more  of  red  any  apple  has  in  its 
rind,  the  more  prooer  it  is  for  this  use.  Pale-faced 
apples  they  exclude  as  much  as  may  be  from  their 
cider-vat."  This  opinion  still  prevails. 

All  apples  are  good  in  November.  Those  which 
the  farmer  leaves  out  as  unsalable,  and  unpalatable  to 
those  who  frequent  the  markets,  are  choicest  fruit  to 
the  walker.  But  it  is  remarkable  that  the  wild  apple, 
which  I  praise  as  so  spirited  and  racy  when  eaten  in 
the  fields  or  woods,  being  brought  into  the  house,  has 
frequently  a  harsh  and  crabbed  taste.  The  Saunter- 
er's  Apple  not  even  the  saunterer  can  eat  in  the  house. 
The  palate  rejects  it  there,  as  it  does  haws  and  acorns, 
and  demands  a  tamed  one  ;  for  there  you  miss  the  No 
vember  air,  which  is  the  sauce  it  is  to  be  eaten  with. 
Accordingly,  when  Tityrus,  seeing  the  lengthening 
shadows,  invites  Meliboeus  to  go  home  and  pass  the 
night  with  him,  he  promises  him  mild  apples  and  soft 
chestnuts.  I  frequently  pluck  wild  apples  of  so  rich 
and  spicy  a  flavor  that  I  wonder  all  orchardists  do  not 
get  a  scion  from  that  tree,  and  I  fail  not  to  bring 
home  my  pockets  full.  But  perchance,  when  I  take 
one  out  of  my  desk  and  taste  it  in  my  chamber  I  find 
it  unexpectedly  crude,  —  sour  enough  to  set  a  squir 
rel's  teeth  on  edge  and  make  a  jay  scream. 

1  An  English  writer  of  the  seventeenth  centuiy. 


WILD  APPLES.  187 

These  apples  have  hung  in  the  wind  and  frost  and 
rain  till  they  have  absorbed  the  qualities  of  the  weather 
or  season,  and  thus  are  highly  seasoned,  and  they 
pierce  and  sting  and  permeate  us  with  their  spirit. 
They  must  be  eaten  in  season,  accordingly,  —  that  is, 
out-of-doors. 

To  appreciate  the  wild  and  sharp  flavors  of  these 
October  fruits,  it  is  necessary  that  you  be  breathing 
the  sharp  October  or  November  air.  The  out-door  air 
and  exercise  which  the  walker  gets  give  a  different 
tone  to  his  palate,  and  he  craves  a  fruit  which  the 
sedentary  would  call  harsh  and  crabbed.  They  must 
be  eaten  in  the  fields,  when  your  system  is  all  aglow 
with  exercise,  when  the  frosty  weather  nips  your  fin 
gers,  the  wind  rattles  the  bare  boughs  or  rustles  the 
few  remaining  leaves,  and  the  jay  is  heard  screaming 
around.  What  is  sour  in  the  house  a  bracing  walk 
makes  sweet.  Some  of  these  apples  might  be  labelled, 
"  To  be  eaten  in  the  wind." 

Of  course  no  flavors  are  thrown  away ;  they  are  in 
tended  for  the  taste  that  is  up  to  them.  Some  apples 
have  two  distinct  flavors,  and  perhaps  one-half  of 
them  must  be  eaten  in  the  house,  the  other  out-doors. 
One  Peter  Whitney  wrote  from  Northborougb  in 
1782,  for  the  Proceedings  of  the  Boston  Academy,  de 
scribing  an  apple-tree  in  that  town  "  producing  fruit 
of  opposite  qualities,  part  of  the  same  apple  being  fre 
quently  sour  and  the  other  sweet ;  "  also  some  all  sour, 
and  others  all  sweet,  and  this  diversity  on  all  parts  oi 
the  tree. 

There  is  a  wild  apple  on  Nawshawtuck  Hill  in  my 
town  which  has  to  me  a  peculiarly  pleasant  bitter 
tang,  not  perceived  till  it  is  three-quarters  tasted.  It 
remains  on  the  tongue.  As  you  eat  it,  it  smells  ex- 


188  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

actly  like  a  squash-bug.  It  is  a  sort  of  triumph  to  eat 
and  relish  it. 

I  hear  that  the  fruit  of  a  kind  of  plum-tree  in  Pro- 
rence  is  "  called  Prunes  sibarelles,  because  it  is  im 
possible  to  whistle  after  having  eaten  them,  from  their 
sourness."  But  perhaps  they  were  only  eaten  in  the 
house  and  in  summer,  and  if  tried  out-of-doors  in  a 
stinging  atmosphere,  who  knows  but  you  could  whistle 
an  octave  higher  and  clearer  ? 

In  the  fields  only  are  the  sours  and  bitters  of  Na 
ture  appreciated ;  just  as  the  wood-chopper  eats  his 
meal  in  a  sunny  glade,  in  the  middle  of  a  winter  day, 
with  content,  basks  in  a  sunny  ray  there,  and  dreams 
of  summer  in  a  degree  of  cold  which,  experienced  in  a 
chamber,  would  make  a  student  miserable.  They  who 
are  at  work  abroad  are  not  cold,  but  rather  it  is  they 
who  sit  shivering  in  houses.  As  with  temperatures, 
so  with  flavors ;  as  with  cold  and  heat,  so  with  sour 
and  sweet.  This  natural  raciness,  the  sours  and  bit 
ters  which  the  diseased  palate  refuses,  are  the  true 
condiments. 

Let  your  condiments  be  in  the  condition  of  your 
senses.  To  appreciate  the  flavor  of  these  wild  apples 
requires  vigorous  and  healthy  senses,  papillce1  firm 
and  erect  on  the  tongue  and  palate,  not  easily  flattened 
and  tamed. 

From  my  experience  with  wild  apples,  I  can  under 
stand  that  there  may  be  reason  for  a  savage's  prefer 
ring  many  kinds  of  food  which  the  civilized  man  re 
jects.  The  former  has  the  palate  of  an  out-door  man. 
It  takes  a  savage  or  wild  taste  to  appreciate  a  wild 
fruit. 

1  A  Latin  word,  accent  on  thfc  second  syllable,  meaning  here 
the  rough  surface  of  the  tongue  and  palate. 


WILD  APPLES.  189 

What  a  healthy  out-of-door  appetite  it  takes  to  rel 
ish  the  apple  of  life,  the  apple  of  the  world,  then  1 

"  Nor  is  it  every  apple  I  desire, 

Nor  that  which  pleases  every  palate  best ; 
'T  is  not  the  lasting  Deuxan  I  require, 

Nor  yet  the  red-cheeked  Greening  I  request, 
Nor  that  which  first  beshrewed  the  name  of  wife, 
Nor  that  whose  beauty  caused  the  golden  strife  : 
No,  no  !  bring  me  an  apple  from  the  tree  of  life." 

So  there  is  one  thought  for  the  field,  another  for  the 
house.  I  would  have  my  thoughts,  like  wild  apples, 
to  be  food  for  walkers,  and  will  not  warrant  them  to 
be  palatable,  if  tasted  in  the  house. 

THEIR  BEAUTY. 

Almost  all  wild  apples  are  handsome.  They  can 
not  be  too  gnarly  and  crabbed  and  rusty  to  look  at. 
The  gnarliest  will  have  some  redeeming  traits  even  to 
the  eye.  You  will  discover  some  evening  redness 
dashed  or  sprinkled  on  some  protuberance  or  in  some 
cavity.  It  is  rare  that  the  summer  lets  an  apple  go 
without  streaking  or  spotting  it  on  some  part  of  its 
sphere.  It  will  have  some  red  stains,  commemorating 
the  mornings  and  evenings  it  has  witnessed ;  some 
dark  and  rusty  blotches,  in  memory  of  the  clouds  and 
foggy,  mildewy  days  that  have  passed  over  it ;  and  a 
spacious  field  of  green  reflecting  the  general  face  of 
Nature,  —  green  even  as  the  fields;  or  a  yellow 
ground,  which  implies  a  milder  flavor,  —  yellow  as  the 
harvest,  or  russet  as  the  hills. 

Apples,  these  I  mean,  unspeakably  fair, —  apples 
not  of  Discord,  but  Concord  I  Yet  not  so  rare  but 
that  the  homeliest  may  have  a  share.  Painted  by 
the  frosts,  some  a  uniform  clear  bright  yellow,  or  red, 


190  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

or  crimson,  as  if  their  spheres  had  regularly  revolved, 
and  enjoyed  the  influence  of  the  sun  on  all  sides  alike, 
—  some  with  the  faintest  pink  blush  imaginable,  — 
some  brindled  with  deep  red  streaks  like  a  cow,  or 
with  hundreds  of  fine  blood-red  rays  running  regularly 
from  the  stem-dimple  to  the  blossom-end,  like  merid 
ional  lines,  on  a  straw-colored  ground,  —  some  touched 
with  a  greenish  rust,  like  a  fine  lichen,  here  and  there, 
with  crimson  blotches  or  eyes  more  or  less  confluent 
and  fiery  when  wet,  —  and  others  gnarly,  and  freckled 
or  peppered  all  over  on  the  stem  side  with  fine  crim 
son  spots  on  a  white  ground,  as  if  accidentally  sprin 
kled  from  the  brush  of  Him  who  paints  the  autumn 
leaves.  Others,  again,  are  sometimes  red  inside,  per 
fused  with  a  beautiful  blush,  fairy  food,  too  beautiful 
to  eat,  —  apple  of  the  Hesperides,  apple  of  the  even 
ing  sky  1  But  like  shells  and  pebbles  on  the  sea-shore, 
they  must  be  seen  as  they  sparkle  amid  the  withering 
leaves  in  some  dell  in  the  woods,  in  the  autumnal  air, 
or  as  they  lie  in  the  wet  grass,  and  not  when  they 
have  wilted  and  faded  in  the  house. 

THE  NAMING  OF  THEM. 

It  would  be  a  pleasant  pastime  to  find  suitable 
names  for  the  hundred  varieties  which  go  to  a  single 
heap  at  the  cider-mill.  Would  it  not  tax  a  man's 
invention,  —  no  one  to  be  named  after  a  man,  and 
all  in  the  lingua  vemacula  ? l  Who  shall  stand  god 
father  at  the  christening  of  the  wild  apples  ?  It  would 
exhaust  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages,  if  they  were 
used,  and  make  the  lingua  vemacula  flag.  We 
should  have  to  call  in  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset,  the 
rainbow  and  the  autumn  woods  and  the  wild  flowers, 
1  Lingua  vernac'ula,  common  speech. 


WILD  APPLES.  191 

and  the  woodpecker  and  the  purple  finch,  and  the 
squirrel  and  the  jay  and  the  butterfly,  the  November 
traveller  and  the  truant  boy,  to  our  aid. 

In  1836  there  were  in  the  garden  of  the  London 
Horticultural  Society  more  than  fourteen  hundred 
distinct  sorts.  But  here  are  species  which  they  have 
not  in  their  catalogue,  not  to  mention  the  varieties 
which  our  Crab  might  yield  to  cultivation.  Let  us  enu 
merate  a  few  of  these.  I  find  myself  compelled,  after 
all,  to  give  the  Latin  names  of  some  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  live  where  English  is  not  spoken, — for 
they  are  likely  to  have  a  world-wide  reputation. 

There  is,  first  of  all,  the  Wood-Apple  (Mains  syl- 
vatica)  ;  the  Blue-Jay  Apple;  the  Apple  which  grows 
in  Dells  in  the  Woods  (sylvestrivallis),  also  in  Hol 
lows  in  Pastures  (campestrivallis)  ;  the  Apple  that 
grows  in  .an  old  Cellar-Hole  (Mains  cellaris)  ;  the 
Meadow- Apple ;  the  Partridge-Apple  ;  the  Truant's 
Apple  ( Cessatoris),  which  no  boy  will  ever  go  by 
without  knocking  off  some,  however  late  it  may  be ; 
the  Saunterer's  Apple,  —  you  must  lose  yourself  be 
fore  you  can  find  the  way  to  that ;  the  Beauty  of  the 
Air  (Decus  Aeris)  ;  December-Eating ;  the  Frozen- 
Thawed  (gelato-soluta),  good  only  in  that  state  ;  the 
Concord  Apple,  possibly  the  same  with  the  Muslceta- 
quidensis ;  the  Assabet  Apple ;  the  Brindled  Apple  $ 
Wine  of  New  England ;  the  Chickaree  Apple ;  the 
Green  Apple  (Mains  viridis)  ;  —  this  has  many 
synonyms ;  in  an  imperfect  state,  it  is  the  Cholera 
morbifera  aut  dysenterifera,  puerulis  dilectissima  ; l 
—  the  Apple  which  Atalanta  stopped  to  pick  up  ;  the 
Hedge  -  Apple  (Mains  Sepiurn)  ;  the  Slug  -  Apple 

1  The  apple  that  brings  the  disease  of  cholera  and  of  dysen 
tery,  the  fruit  that  small  boys  like  beet. 


192  HER-RY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

(limacea)  ;  the  Railroad-Apple,  which  perhaps  came 
from  a  core  thrown  out  of  the  cars  ;  the  Apple  whose 
Fruit  we  tasted  in  our  Youth ;  our  Particular  Apple, 
not  to  be  found  in  any  catalogue,  —  Pedestrium  So 
latium  ; 1  also  the  Apple  where  hangs  the  Forgotten 
Scythe ;  Iduna's  Apples,  and  the  Apples  which  Loki 
found  in  the  Wood  ; 2  and  a  great  many  more  I  have 
on  my  list,  too  numerous  to  mention,  —  all  of  them 
good.  As  Bodaeus  exclaims,  referring  to  the  culti 
vated  kinds,  and  adapting  Virgil  to  his  case,  so  I, 
adapting  Bodaeus,  — 

"  Not  if  I  had  a  hundred  tongues,  a  hundred  mouths, 
An  iron  voice,  could  I  describe  all  the  forms 
And  reckon  up  all  the  names  of  these  wild  apples" 

THE   LAST   GLEANING. 

By  the  middle  of  November  the  wild  apples  have 
lost  some  of  their  brilliancy,  and  have  chiefly  fallen. 
A  great  part  are  decayed  on  the  ground,  and  the 
sound  ones  are  more  palatable  than  before.  The 
note  of  the  chickadee  sounds  now  more  distinct,  ae 
you  wander  amid  the  old  trees,  and  the  autumnal 
dandelion  is  half-closed  and  tearful.  But  still,  if  you 
are  a  skilful  gleaner,  you  may  get  many  a  pocket-full 
even  of  grafted  fruit,  long  after  apples  are  supposed 
to  be  gone  out-of-doors.  I  know  a  Blue-Pearmain 
tree,  growing  within  the  edge  of  a  swamp,  almost  as 
good  as  wild.  You  would  not  suppose  that  there  was 
any  fruit  left  there,  on  the  first  survey,  but  you  must 
look  according  to  system.  Those  which  lie  exposed 
are  quite  brown  and  rotten  now,  or  perchance  a  few 
still  show  one  blooming  cheek  here  and  there  amid 
the  wet  leaves.  Nevertheless,  with  experienced  eyes, 
1  The  tramp's  comfort.  •  See  p.  172. 


WILD  APPLES.  193 

I  explore  amid  the  bare  alders  and  the  huckleberry- 
bushes  and  the  withered  sedge,  and  in  the  crevices  of 
the  rocks,  which  are  full  of  leaves,  and  pry  under  the 
fallen  and  decaying  ferns,  which,  with  apple  and 
alder  leaves,  thickly  strew  the  ground.  For  I  know 
that  they  lie  concealed,  fallen  into  hollows  long  since 
and  covered  up  by  the  leaves  of  the  tree  itself,  —  a 
proper  kind  of  packing.  From  these  lurking-places, 
anywhere  within  the  circumference  of  the  tree,  1 
draw  forth  the  fruit,  all  wet  and  glossy,  maybe  nib* 
bled  by  rabbits  and  hollowed  out  by  crickets  and 
perhaps  with  a  leaf  or  two  cemented  to  it  (as  Curzon  1 
an  old  manuscript  from  a  monastery's  mouldy  cellar), 
but  still  with  a  rich  bloom  on  it,  and  at  least  as  ripe 
and  well  kept,  if  not  better  than  those  in  barrels, 
more  crisp  and  lively  than  they.  If  these  resources 
fail  to  yield  anything,  I  have  learned  to  look  between 
the  bases  of  the  suckers  which  spring  thickly  from 
some  horizontal  limb,  for  now  and  then  one  lodges 
there,  or  in  the  very  midst  of  an  alder-clump,  where 
they  are  covered  by  leaves,  safe  from  cows  which  may 
have  smelled  them  out.  If  I  am  sharp-set,  for  I  do 
not  refuse  the  Blue-Pearmain,  I  fill  my  pockets  on 
each  side ;  and  as  I  retrace  my  steps  in  the  frosty 
eve,  being  perhaps  four  or  five  miles  from  home,  I 
eat  one  first  from  this  side,  and  then  from  that,  to 
keep  my  balance. 

I  learn  from  Topsell's  Gesner,  whose  authority  ap 
pears  to  be  Albertus,  that  the  following  is  the  way  in 
which  the  hedgehog  collects  and  carries  home  his 
apples.  He  says :  "  His  meat  is  apples,  worms,  or 

1  Robert  Curzon  was  a  traveller  who  searched  for  old  manu 
scripts  in  the  monasteries  of  the  Levant.  See  his  book,  An* 
went  Monasteries  of  the  East. 


194  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

grapes :  when  he  findeth  apples  or  grapes  on  the  earth, 
he  rolleth  himself  upon  them,  until  he  have  filled  all 
his  prickles,  and  then  carrieth  them  home  to  his  den, 
never  bearing  above  one  in  his  mouth  ;  and  if  it  for 
tune  that  one  of  them  fall  off  by  the  way,  he  likewise 
shaketh  off  all  the  residue,  and  walloweth  upon  them 
if  resh,  until  they  be  all  settled  upon  his  back  again. 
So,  forth  he  goeth,  making  a  noise  like  a  cart-wheel ; 
and  if  he  have  any  young  ones  in  his  nest,  they  pull 
off  his  load  wherewithal  he  is  loaded,  eating  thereof 
what  they  please,  and  laying  up  the  residue  for  the 
lime  to  come." 

THE   "  FROZEN-THAWED  "    APPLE. 

Toward  the  end  of  November,  though  some  of  the 
sound  ones  are  yet  more  mellow  and  perhaps  more 
edible,  they  have  generally,  like  the  leaves,  lost  their 
beauty,  and  are  beginning  to  freeze.  It  is  finger-cold, 
and  prudent  farmers  get  in  their  barrelled  apples,  and 
bring  you  the  apples  and  cider  which  they  have  en 
gaged  ;  for  it  is  time  to  put  them  into  the  cellar. 
Perhaps  a  few  on  the  ground  show  their  red  cheeks 
above  the  early  snow,  and  occasionally  some  even 
preserve  their  color  and  soundness  under  the  snow 
throughout  the  winter.  But  generally  at  the  begin 
ning  of  the  winter  they  freeze  hard,  and  soon,  though 
undecayed,  acquire  the  color  of  a  baked  apple. 

Before  the  end  of  December,  generally,  they  ex 
perience  their  first  thawing.  Those  which  a  month 
ago  were  sour,  crabbed,  and  quite  unpalatable  to  the 
civilized  taste,  such  at  least  as  were  frozen  while 
sound,  let  a  warmer  sun  come  to  thaw  them,  for  they 
are  extremely  sensitive  to  its  rays,  are  found  to  be 
filled  with  a  rich,  sweet  cider,  better  than  any  bottled 


WILD  APPLES.  195 

cider  that  I  know  of,  and  with  which  I  am  better 
acquainted  than  with  wine.  All  apples  are  good  in 
this  state,  and  your  jaws  are  the  cider-press.  Others, 
which  have  more  substance,  are  a  sweet  and  luscious 
food,  —  in  my  opinion  of  more  worth  than  the  pine 
apples  which  are  imported  from  the  West  Indies. 
Those  which  lately  even  I  tasted  only  to  repent  of  it, 
—  for  I  am  semi-civilized,  —  which  the  farmer  will 
ingly  left  on  the  tree,  I  am  now  glad  to  find  have  the 
property  of  hanging  on  like  the  leaves  of  the  young 
oaks.  It  is  a  way  to  keep  cider  sweet  without  boil 
ing.  Let  the  frost  come  to  freeze  them  first,  solid  as 
stones,  and  then  the  rain  or  a  warm  winter  day  to 
thaw  them,  and  they  will  seem  to  have  borrowed  a 
flavor  from  heaven  through  the  medium  of  the  air  in 
which  they  hang.  Or  perchance  you  find,  when  you 
get  home,  that  those  which  rattled  in  your  pocket 
have  thawed,  and  the  ice  is  turned  to  cider.  But 
after  the  third  or  fourth  freezing  and  thawing  they 
will  not  be  found  so  good. 

What  are  the  imported  half -ripe  fruits  of  the  torrid 
South  to  this  fruit  matured  by  the  cold  of  the  frigid 
North  ?  These  are  those  crabbed  apples  with  which 
I  cheated  my  companion,  and  kept  a  smooth  face  that 
I  might  tempt  him  to  eat.  Now  we  both  greedily  fill 
our  pockets  with  them,  —  bending  to  drink  the  cup 
and  save  our  lappets  from  the  overflowing  juice, — 
and  grow  more  social  with  their  wine.  Was  there 
one  that  hung  so  high  and  sheltered  by  the  tangled 
branches  that  our  sticks  could  not  dislodge  it  ? 

It  is  a  fruit  never  carried  to  market,  that  I  am 
aware  of,  —  quite  distinct  from  the  apple  of  the 
markets,  as  from  dried  apple  and  cider,  —  and  it  ia 
not  every  winter  that  produces  it  in  perfection. 


196  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

The  era  of  the  Wild  Apple  will  soon  be  past.  It 
is  a  fruit  which  will  probably  become  extinct  in  New 
England.  You  may  still  wander  through  old  orchards 
of  native  fruit  of  great  extent,  which  for  the  most 
part  went  to  the  cider-mill,  now  all  gone  to  decay.  I 
have  heard  of  an  orchard  in  a  distant  town,  on  the 
side  of  a  hill,  where  the  apples  rolled  down  and  lay 
four  feet  deep  against  a  wall  on  the  lower  side,  and 
this  the  owner  cut  down  for  fear  they  should  be  made 
into  cider.  Since  the  temperance  reform  and  the 
general  introduction  of  grafted  fruit,  no  native  apple- 
trees,  such  as  I  see  everywhere  in  deserted  pastures, 
and  where  the  woods  have  grown  up  around  them,  are 
set  out.  I  fear  that  he  who  walks  over  these  fields  a 
century  hence  will  not  know  the  pleasure  of  knocking 
off  wild  apples.  Ah,  poor  man,  there  are  many  plea 
sures  which  he  will  not  know  I  Notwithstanding  the 
prevalence  of  the  Baldwin  and  the  Porter,  I  doubt  if 
so  extensive  orchards  are  set  out  to-day  in  my  town  as 
there  were  a  century  ago,  when  those  vast  straggling 
cider-orchards  were  planted,  when  men  both  ate  and 
drank  apples,  when  the  pomace-heap  was  the  only 
nursery,  and  trees  cost  nothing  but  the  trouble  of  set 
ting  them  out.  Men  could  afford  then  to  stick  a  tree 
by  every  wall-side  and  let  it  take  its  chance.  I  see 
nobody  planting  trees  to-day  in  such  out-of-the-way 
places,  along  the  lonely  roads  and  lanes,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  dells  in  the  wood.  Now  that  they  have 
grafted  trees,  and  pay  a  price  for  them,  they  collect 
them  into  a  plat  by  their  houses,  and  fence  them  in, 
—  and  the  end  of  it  all  will  be  that  we  shall  be  com 
pelled  to  look  for  our  apples  in  a  barrel. 

This  is  "  The  word  of  the  Lord  that  came  to  Joe] 
the  son  of  Pethuel. 


WILD  APPLES.  197 

**  Hear  this,  ye  old  men,  and  give  ear,  all  ye  in 
habitants  of  the  land  !  Hath  this  been  in  your  days, 
or  even  in  the  days  of  your  fathers  ?  .  .  . 

"  That  which  the  palmer- worm  hath  left  hath  the 
locust  eaten  ;  and  that  which  the  locust  hath  left  hath 
the  canker-worm  eaten ;  and  that  which  the  canker- 
worm  hath  left  hath  the  caterpillar  eaten. 

"  Awake,  ye  drunkards,  and  weep !  and  howl,  all 
ye  drinkers  of  wine,  because  of  the  new  wine  !  for  it 
is  cut  off  from  your  mouth. 

"  For  a  nation  is  come  up  upon  my  land,  strong, 
and  without  number,  whose  teeth  are  the  teeth  of  a 
lion,  and  he  hath  the  cheek-teeth  of  a  great  lion. 

"  He  hath  laid  my  vine  waste,  and  barked  my  fig- 
tree  ;  he  hath  made  it  clean  bare,  and  cast  it  away ; 
the  branches  thereof  are  made  white.  .  .  . 

"Be  ye  ashamed,  O  ye  husbandmen !  howl,  O  ye 
vine-dressers !  .  .  . 

"  The  vine  is  dried  up,  and  the  fig-tree  languish- 
eth ;  the  pomegranate-tree,  the  palm-tree  also,  and  the 
apple-tree,  even  all  the  trees  of  the  field,  are  with 
ered  :  because  joy  is  withered  away  from  the  sous  oi 
men."1 

1  Joel,  chapter  i.,  verses  1-12. 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.1 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY  was  born  on  June  28,  1844,  in 
Dowth  Castle,  four  miles  above  the  town  of  Drogheda,  Ire 
land.  His  parents  were  cultured  and  talented.  He  inher 
ited  a  good  constitution,  and  was  passionately  fond  of  out- 
of-door  sports.  Among  the  boys  of  his  neighborhood  no  one 
was  more  daring  or  skilful  than  the  handsome,  rosy-cheeked, 
curly-haired,  dark-eyed  John.  At  the  age  of  eleven  he  left 
home  to  become  an  apprentice  hi  the  printing-office  of  the 
Drogheda  Argus,  at  a  salary  of  two  shillings  and  sixpence 
a  week,  which  did  not  include  board  and  lodging ;  his  salary 
was  increased  sixpence  a  week  every  year. 

After  nearly  four  years  of  service  the  death  of  his  em 
ployer  released  him  from  the  obligations  of  his  apprentice 
ship.  In  1859  he  went  to  Preston,  England,  the  home  of 
his  uncle,  Captain  Watkinson,  where  he  obtained  a  situation 
as  an  apprentice  in  the  office  of  the  Cruardian.  Three 
years  later  he  graduated  from  the  printer's  case  and  became 
a  reporter,  having  learned  shorthand  and  otherwise  equipped 
himself  for  the  work  of  a  journalist.  In  March,  1863,  he 
obeyed  a  call  from  his  father  to  return  home  to  Ireland. 

He  had  become  deeply  imbued  with  the  revolutionary 
principles  then  so  freely  adopted  by  patriotic  Irishmen.  It 

1  The  information  given  in  this  brief  sketch  has  been  gleaned 
from  the  Life  of  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  by  James  Jeffrey  Roche, 
published  by  the  Cassell  .Publishing  Company,  of  New  York* 


200  JOHN  BOYLE   O'REILLY. 

was  hoped  that  disaffection  would  be  sowed  in  the  ranks  of 
the  British  army,  of  which  more  than  thirty  per  cent  were 
Irishmen.  Accordingly  in  May,  1863,  O'Reilly  enlisted  as 
a  trooper  in  the  Tenth  Hussars,  where  he  became  a  model 
soldier,  quick  to  learn  and  punctual  to  obey  orders.  In 
February,  1866,  he  was  arrested  on  the  charge  of  "  having 
at  Dublin  in  January,  1866,  come  to  the  knowledge  of  an 
intended  mutiny  in  Her  Majesty's  Forces  in  Ireland,  and 
not  giving  information  of  said  intended  mutiny  to  his  com 
manding  officer."  On  June  27th,  of  the  same  year,  the  day 
preceding  his  twenty-second  birthday,  his  trial  by  court- 
martial  began.  On  July  9,  1866,  formal  sentence  of  death 
was  passed  upon  him.  The  same  day  the  sentence  was  com 
muted  to  life  imprisonment,  and  afterwards  to  twenty  years' 
penal  servitude.  For  about  fifteen  months  he  was  confined 
in  the  prisons  of  Mountjoy,  Pentonville,  Millbank,  Chatham, 
Portsmouth,  Dartmoor,  and  Portland.  He  suffered  in 
tensely  from  poor  food,  hard  work,  foul  air,  and  inhuman 
jailers.  He  made  two  unsuccessful  attempts  to  escape,  for 
which  he  was  severely  punished  by  solitary  confinement  and 
a  diet  of  bread  and  water. 

In  October,  1867,  he  and  sixty-two  other  political  prison 
ers  were  embarked  on  the  Hougoumont  for  Australia.  His 
popularity  among  the  guards  secured  for  him  kindly  treat 
ment  on  the  voyage.  He  arrived  at  Freemautle  on  the 
morning  of  January  10, 1868,  and  four  weeks  later  was  sent 
to  Bunbury,  thirty  miles  away,  where  he  led  the  life  of  a 
convict  among  some  of  the  most  degraded  of  humankind  — 
murderers,  burglars,  offenders  of  every  grade  and  color  of 
vice.  But  ill  fortune  instead  of  blighting  had  nourished  in 
him  the  growth  of  the  instincts  of  pure  humanity.  He  soon 
won  the  respect  of  the  officer  over  him,  became  of  assistance 
in  clerical  work,  and  was  appointed  a  "  constable,"  or  aid  to 
an  officer  in  charge  of  a  working  party.  Not  long  after 
the  following  advertisement  appeared  in  the  Police  Gazette 
of  Western  Australia :  — 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  201 

ABSCONDERS. 

20 — John  B.  O'Reilly,  registered  No.  9843,  imperial  convict; 
arrived  in  the  colony  per  convict  ship  Hougoumont  in  1868 ;  sen 
tenced  to  twenty  years,  9th  July,  1866.  Description  —  Healthy 
appearance  ;  present  age  25  years  ;  5  feet  7|  inches  high,  black 
hair,  brown  eyes,  oval  visage,  dark  complexion  :  an  Irishman. 
Absconded  from  Convict  Road  Party,  Bunbury,  on  the  18th  of 
February,  1869. 

O'Reilly  had  escaped  through  the  Bush  to  the  seashore, 
and  after  a  disappointing  delay  and  much  suffering  from 
hunger  and  thirst  he  was  taken  on  hoard  the  Gazelle,  a  Ne\r 
Bedford  whaler  commanded  by  Captain  Gifford.  Two 
months  later,  in  the  harbor  of  Roderique,  he  escaped  cap 
ture  through  a  well-planned  ruse  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Hatha 
way,  the  third  mate  of  the  Gazelle.  To  avoid  the  danger 
of  capture  at  St.  Helena,  the  next  port  for  the  Gazelle, 
O'Reilly  was  reluctantly  transferred,  by  Captain  Gifford,  on 
July  29th,  to  the  Sapphire,  of  Boston,  bound  for  Liverpool. 
After  a  short  stay  at  Liverpool  he  embarked  as  third  mate 
on  the  Bombay,  and  on  November  23,  1869,  landed  at 
Philadelphia.  His  first  act  after  landing  was  to  present 
himself  before  the  United  States  District  Court  and  take  out 
his  first  naturalization  papers.  He  soon  went  to  New  York, 
where  by  the  invitation  of  the  Fenians  he  delivered  a  lecture 
to  over  two  thousand  persons  at  the  Cooper  Institute,  on 
December  16,  1869.  We  next  find  him  in  Boston  as  clerk 
in  the  office  of  the  Inman  Line  Steamship  Company.  After 
four  or  five  weeks  of  satisfactory  work  he  was  discharged 
by  orders  received  from  the  general  office  of  the  company  in 
England,  whither  news  had  been  sent  that  John  Boyle 
O'Reilly,  an  escaped  convict,  was  in  the  employment  of  the 
company  at  Boston.  In  the  spring  of  1870,  after  having 
lectured  successfully  in  Boston,  Providence,  Salem,  Law 
rence,  and  other  places,  he  was  employed  by  Mr.  Donahoe, 
the  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Boston  Pilot,  as  a  reporter 


202  JOHN  BOYLE   O'REILLY. 

and  general  writer.  In  June,  1870,  he  took  part  in  the  in 
vasion  of  Canada  by  the  Fenians,  as  war-correspondent  of 
the  Pilot.  His  frank  criticism  of  friends  and  foes  at  this 
time,  and  his  wise  and  temperate  reports  to  the  Pilot  at 
tracted  much  attention. 

In  February,  1876,  O'Reilly,  in  his  thirty-second  year, 
became  one  of  the  proprietors  of  the  Pilot.  In  1879  he 
was  President  of  the  Papyrus  Club,  which  he  had  helped  to 
found,  and  also  of  the  Boston  Press  Club.  His  literary 
work  was  not  confined  to  the  Pilot.  He  made  many  contri 
butions,  in  both  poetry  and  prose,  to  some  of  the  leading 
magazines  of  the  United  States,  and  delivered  a  number  of 
notable  addresses  on  public  occasions.  A  large  part  of  his 
poems  found  a  permanent  form  in  the  volumes  entitled 
Songs  of  the  Southern  Seas,  The  Statues  in  the  Block  and 
In  Bohemia.  He  also  published  Moondyne,  a  novel,  and 
some  other  books.  His  reputation  as  an  editor,  lecturer, 
poet,  and  leader  of  the  Irish-American  people  continued  to 
increase  until  his  death,  which  occurred  on  tbe  nigbt  of 
August  9,  1890. 

On  August  15,  1872,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  Mur 
phy,  of  Charlestown,  Massachusetts.  They  had  four  daugh 
ters,  all  of  whom  survived  their  father. 

Of  the  many  noble  poems  written  by  Mr.  O'Reilly,  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers,  read  August  1,  1889,  at  the  dedication  of 
the  national  monument  to  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  at  Plymouth, 
Massachusetts,  is  described  as  the  crowning  work  of  his  life 
as  an  American  singer.  This  poem  is  given  in  full  in  the 
following  pages. 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

ONE  righteous  word  for  Law  —  the  common  will ; 
One  living  truth  of  Faith  —  God  regnant  still ; 
One  primal  test  of  Freedom  —  all  combined ; 
One  sacred  Revolution  —  change  of  mind ; 
One  trust  unfailing  for  the  night  and  need  — 
The  tyrant-flower  shall  cast  the  freedom-seed. 

So  held  they  firm,  the  Fathers  aye  to  be, 
From  home  to  Holland,  Holland  to  the  sea ; 
Pilgrims  for  manhood,  in  their  little  ship, 
Hope  in  each  heart  and  prayer  on  every  lip.  i» 

They  could  not  live  by  king-made  codes  and  creeds ; 
They  chose  the  path  where  every  footstep  bleeds. 
Protesting,  not  rebelling ;  scorned  and  banned ; 
Through  pains  and  prisons  harried  from  the  land ; 
Through  double  exile,  —  till  at  last  they  stand  it 

Apart  from  all,  —  unique,  unworldly,  true, 
Selected  grain  to  sow  the  earth  anew ; 
A  winnowed  part,  a  saving  remnant  they ; 
Dreamers  who  work,  adventurers  who  pray  I 

What  vision  led  them?    Can  we  test  their  prayers?  » 
Who  knows  they  saw  no  empire  in  the  West  ? 
The  later  Puritans  sought  land  and  gold, 
And  all  the  treasures  that  the  Spaniard  told ; 
What  line  divides  the  Pilgrims  from  the  rest? 

We  know  them  by  the  exile  that  was  theirs ;  25 

Their  justice,  faith,  and  fortitude  attest; 


204  JOHN  BOYLE   O'REILLY. 

And  those  long  years  in  Holland,  when  their  band 

Sought  humble  living  in  a  stranger's  land. 

They  saw  their  England  covered  with  a  weed 

Of  flaunting  lordship  both  in  court  and  creed.  M 

With  helpless  hands  they  watched  the  error  grow, 

Pride  on  the  top  and  impotence  below ; 

Indulgent  nobles,  privileged  and  strong, 

A  haughty  crew  to  whom  all  rights  belong ; 

The  bishops  arrogant,  the  courts  impure,  « 

The  rich  conspirators  against  the  poor ; 

The  peasant  scorned,  the  artisan  despised ; 

The  all-supporting  workers  lowest  prized. 

They  marked  those  evils  deepen  year  by  year : 

The  pensions  grow,  the  freeholds  disappear, 

Till  England  meant  but  monarch,  prelate,  peer. 

At  last  the  Conquest !     Now  they  know  the  word : 

The  Saxon  tenant  and  the  Norman  lord ! 

No  longer  Merrie  England :  now  it  meant 

The  payers  and  the  takers  of  the  rent ;  45 

And  rent  exacted  not  from  lands  alone  — 

All  rights  and  hopes  must  centre  in  the  throne : 

Law-tithes  for  prayer  —  their  souls  were  not  their  own ! 

Then  o'er  the  brim  the  bitter  waters  welled ; 
The  mind  protested  and  the  soul  rebelled.  » 

And  yet,  how  deep  the  bowl,  how  slight  the  flow  1 
A  few  brave  exiles  from  their  country  go ; 
A  few  strong  souls  whose  rich  affections  cling, 
Though  cursed  by  clerics,  hunted  by  the  king ; 
Their  last  sad  vision  on  the  Grimsby  strand  • 

Their  wives  and  children  kneeling  on  the  sand. 

Then    twelve    slow    years    in    Holland  —  changing 
years  — 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS.  205 

Strange  ways  of  life  —  strange  voices  in  their  ears  ; 

The  growing  children  learning  foreign  speech  ; 

And  growing,  too,  within  the  heart  of  each  • 

A  thought  of  further  exile  —  of  a  home 

In  some  far  land  —  a  home  for  life  and  death 

By  their  hands  built,  in  equity  and  faith. 

And  then  the  preparation  —  the  heart-beat 
Of  wayfarers  who  may  not  rest  their  feet  ;  • 

Their  pastor's  blessing  —  the  farewells  of  some 
Who  stayed  in  Leyden.    Then  the  sea's  wide  blue  : 
"  They  sailed,"  writ  one,  "  and  as  they  sailed  they 

knew 
That  they  were  Pilgrims  I  " 

On  the  wintry  main 

God  flings  their  lives  as  farmers  scatter  grain.  » 

His  breath  propels  the  winged  seed  afloat  ; 
His  tempests  swerve  to  spare  the  fragile  boat  ; 
Before  his  prompting  terrors  disappear  ; 
He  points  the  way  while  patient  seamen  steer  ; 
Till    port    is    reached,   nor  North,   nor   South,  but 
HERE!  * 


Here,  where  the  shore  was  rugged  as  the 
Where  frozen  nature  dumb  and  leafless  lay, 
And  no  rich  meadows  bade  the  Pilgrims  stay, 
Was  spread  the  symbol  of  the  life  that  saves  : 
To  conquer  first  the  outer  things  ;  to  make 
Their  own  advantage,  unallied,  unbound  ; 
Their  blood  the  mortar,  building  from  the  ground  ; 
Their  cares  the  statutes,  making  all  anew  ; 
To  learn  to  trust  the  many,  not  the  few  ; 
To  bend  the  mind  to  discipline  ;  to  break 


206  JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 

The  bonds  of  old  convention,  and  forget 

The  claims  and  barriers  of  class  ;  to  face 

A  desert  land,  a  strange  and  hostile  race, 

And  conquer  both  to  friendship  by  the  debt 

That  nature  pays  to  justice,  love,  and  toil.  90 

Here,  on  this  rock,  and  on  this  sterile  soil, 
Began  the  kingdom  not  of  kings,  but  men : 
Began  the  making  of  the  world  again. 
Here  centuries  sank,  and  from  the  hither  brink 
A  new  world  reached  and  raised  an  old-world  link,     •• 
When  English  hands,  by  wider  vision  taught, 
Threw  down  the  feudal  bars  the  Normans  brought, 
And  here  revived,  in  spite  of  sword  and  stake, 
Their  ancient  freedom  of  the  Wapentake  ! 
Here  struck  the  seed  —  the  Pilgrims'  roofless  town,  iw 
Where  equal  rights  and  equal  bonds  were  set, 
Where  all  the  people  equal-f  ranchised  met ; 
Where  doom  was  writ  of  privilege  and  crown  ; 
Where  human  breath  blew  all  the  idols  down ; 
Where  crests  were  nought,  where  vulture  flags  were 
furled,  IM 

And  common  men  began  to  own  the  world  I 

All  praise  to  others  of  the  vanguard  then ! 

To  Spain,  to  France  ;  to  Baltimore  and  Penn  ; 

To  Jesuit,  Quaker,  Puritan  and  Priest ; 

Their  toil  be  crowned,  their  honors  be  increased !     111 

We  slight  no  true  devotion,  steal  no  fame 

From  other  shrines  to  gild  the  Pilgrims'  name. 

As  time  selects,  we  judge  their  treasures  heaped  ; 

Their  deep  foundations  laid ;  their  harvests  reaped ; 

Their  primal  mode  of  liberty ;  their  rules  m 

Of  civil  right ;  their  churches,  courts,  and  schools : 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS.  207 

Their  freedom's  very  secret  here  laid  down,  — 

The  spring  of  government  is  the  little  town  ! 

They  knew  that  streams  must  follow  to  a  spring ; 

And  no  stream  flows  from  township  to  a  king.  w 

Give  praise  to  others,  early-come  or  late, 

For  love  and  labor  on  our  ship  of  state ; 

But  this  must  stand  above  all  fame  and  zeal : 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  laid  the  ribs  and  keel. 

On  their  strong  lines  we  base  our  social  health,  —     us 

The  man — the  home  —  the  town — the  common  wealth  I 

Unconscious  builders  ?     Yea :  the  conscious  fail ! 

Design  is  impotent  if  Nature  frown. 

No  deathless  pile  has  grown  from  intellect. 

Immortal  things  have  God  for  architect,  wo 

And  men  are  but  the  granite  he  lays  down. 

Unconscious  ?     Yea !     They  thought  it  might  avail 

To  build  a  gloomy  creed  about  their  lives, 

To  shut  out  all  dissent ;  but  naught  survives 

Of  their  poor  structure ;  and  we  know  to-day  iss 

Their  mission  was  less  pastoral  than  lay  — 

More  Nation-seed  than  Gospel-seed  were  they ! 

The  faith  was  theirs :  the  time  had  other  needs. 
The  salt  they  bore  must  sweeten  worldly  deeds. 
There  was  a  meaning  in  the  very  wind  lie 

That  blew  them  here,  so  few,  so  poor,  so  strong, 
To  grapple  concrete  work,  not  abstract  wrong. 
Their  saintly  Robinson  was  left  behind 
To  teach  by  gentle  memory  ;  to  shame 
The  bigot  spirit  and  the  word  of  flame ;  i«i 

To  write  dear  mercy  in  the  Pilgrims'  law ; 
To  lead  to  that  wide  faith  his  soul  foresaw,  — 
That  no  rejected  race  in  darkness  delves ; 


208  JOHN  BOYLE   O'REILLY. 

There  are  no  Gentiles,  but  they  make  themselves ; 
That  men  are  one  of  blood  and  one  of  spirit ;  iv 

That  one  is  as  the  whole,  and  all  inherit ! 

On  all  the  story  of  a  life  or  race, 

The  blessing  of  a  good  man  leaves  its  trace. 

Their  Pastor's  word  at  Ley  den  here  sufficed : 

"  But  follow  me  as  I  have  followed  Christ ! "  iss 

And,  "  I  believe  there  is  more  truth  to  come !  " 

O  gentle  soul,  what  future  age  shall  sum 

The  sweet  incentive  of  thy  tender  word  1 

Thy  sigh  to  hear  of  conquest  by  the  sword ; 

"  How  happy  to  convert,  and  not  to  slay !  "  i» 

When  valiant  Stand  ish  killed  the  chief  at  bay. 

To  such  as  thee  the  fathers  owe  their  fame ; 

The  nation  owes  a  temple  to  thy  name. 

Thy  teaching  made  the  Pilgrims  kindly,  free,  — 

All  that  the  later  Puritans  should  be.  IM 

Thy  pious  instinct  marks  their  destiny. 

Thy  love  won  more  than  force  or  arts  adroit,  — 

It  writ  and  kept  the  deed  with  Massasoit ; 

It  earned  the  welcome  Samoset  expressed ; 

It  lived  again  in  Eliot's  loving  breast ;  w 

It  filled  the  Compact  which  the  Pilgrims  signed  — 

Immortal  scroll !  the  first  where  men  combined 

From  one  deep  lake  of  common  blood  to  draw 

All  rulers,  rights,  and  potencies  of  law. 

When  waves  of  ages  have  their  motive  spent  MI 

Thy  sermon  preaches  in  this  Monument, 
Where  Virtue,  Courage,  Law,  and  Learning  sit ; 
Calm  Faith  above  them,  grasping  Holy  Writ ; 
White  hand  upraised  o'er  beauteous,  trusting  eyes, 
And  pleading  finger  pointing  to  the  skies !  iso 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS.  209 

The  past  is  theirs,  the  future  ours ;  and  we 

Must  learn  and  teach.     Oh,  may  our  record  be 

Like  theirs,  a  glory,  symbolled  in  a  stone, 

To  speak  as  this  speaks,  of  our  labors  done. 

They  had  no  model ;  but  they  left  us  one.  IBS 

Severe  they  were  ;  but  let  him  cast  the  stone 

Who  Christ's  dear  love  dare  measure  with  his  own. 

Their  strict  professions  were  not  cant  nor  pride. 

Who  calls  them  narrow,  let  his  soul  be  wide ! 

Austere,  exclusive  —  ay,  but  with  their  faiil**1           *•• 

Their  golden  probity  mankind  exalts. 

They  never  lied  in  practice,  peace,  or  strife , 

They  were  no  hypocrites ;  their  faith  was  clear ; 

They  feared  too  much  some  sins  men  ought  to  fear : 

The  lordly  arrogance  and  avarice,  ii» 

And  vain  frivolity's  besotting  vice; 

The  stern  enthusiasm  of  their  life 

Impelled  too  far,  and  weighed  poor  nature  down  ; 

They  missed  God's  smile,  perhaps,  to  watch  his  frown. 

But  he  who  digs  for  faults  shall  resurrect  aw 

Their  manly  virtues  born  of  self-respect. 

How  sum  their  merits  ?    They  were  true  and  brave ; 

They  broke  no  compact  and  they  owned  no  slave. 

They  had  no  servile  order,  no  dumb  throat ; 

They  trusted  first  the  universal  vote ;  ** 

The  first  were  they  to  practice  and  instil 

The  rule  of  law  and  not  the  rule  of  will ; 

They  lived  one  noble  test :  who  would  be  freed 

Must  give  up  all  to  follow  duty's  lead. 

They  made  no  revolution  based  on  blows,  »• 

But  taught  one  truth  that  all  the  planet  knows, 

That  all  men  think  of,  looking  on  a  throne  — 

The  people  may  be  trusted  with  their  own  1 


210  JOHN  BOYLE   O'REILLY. 

In  every  land  wherever  might  holds  sway 
The  Pilgrims'  leaven  is  at  work  to-day.  as 

The  Mayflower's  cabin  was  the  chosen  womb 
Of  light  predestined  for  the  nations'  gloom. 
God  grant  that  those  who  tend  the  sacred  flame 
May  worthy  prove  of  their  Forefathers'  name. 
More  light  has  come,  —  more  dangers,  too,  perplex :  » 
New  prides,  new  greeds,  our  high  condition  vex. 
The  Fathers  fled  from  feudal  lords,  and  made 
A  freehold  state ;  may  we  not  retrograde 
To  lucre-lords  and  hierarchs  of  trade. 
May  we,  as  they  did,  teach  in  court  and  school,         » 
There  must  be  classes,  but  no  class  shall  rule : 
The  sea  is  sweet,  and  rots  not  like  the  pool. 
Though  vast  the  token  of  our  future  glory, 
Though  tongue  of  man  hath  told  not  such  a  story,  — 
Surpassing   Plato's  dream,   More's   phantasy,  —  still 
we  MO 

Have  no  new  principles  to  keep  us  free. 
As  Nature  works  with  changeless  grain  on  grain, 
The  truths  the  Fathers  taught  we  need  again. 
Depart  from  this,  though  we  may  crowd  our  shelves, 
With  codes  and  precepts  for  each  lapse  and  flaw,      i» 
And  patch  our  moral  leaks  with  statute  law, 
We  cannot  be  protected  from  ourselves  I 
Still  must  we  keep  in  every  stroke  and  vote 
The  law  of  conscience  that  the  Pilgrims  wrote  ; 
Our  seal  their  secret :  LIBKRTY  CAN  BE  ;  *H 

THE  STATE  is  FREEDOM  IF  THE  TOWN  is  FREE. 
The  death  of  nations  in  their  work  began ; 
They  sowed  the  seed  of  federated  Man. 
Dead  nations  were  but  robber-holds ;  and  we 
The  first  battalion  of  Humanity  !  MS 

All  living  nations,  while  our  eagles  shine, 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS.  211 

One  after  one,  shall  swing  into  our  line  ; 

Our  freeborn  heritage  shall  be  the  guide 

And  bloodless  order  of  their  regicide ; 

The  sea  shall  join,  not  limit ;  mountains  stand  •• 

Dividing  farm  from  farm,  not  land  from  land. 

O  people's  Voice  !  when  farthest  thrones  shall  hear ; 
When  teachers  own ;  when  thoughtful  rabbis  know ; 
When  artist  minds  in  world-wide  symbol  show ; 
When  serfs  and  soldiers  their  mute  faces  raise ;         w 
When  priests  on  grand  cathedral  altars  praise ; 
When  pride  and  arrogance  shall  disappear, 
The  Pilgrims'  Vision  is  accomplished  here  1 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  was  born  February  22,  1819, 
at  Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  in  tbe  house  where 
he  died  August  12, 1891.  His  early  life  was  spent  in  Cam 
bridge,  and  he  has  sketched  many  of  the  scenes  in  it  very 
delightfully  in  Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago,  in  his  volume 
of  Fireside  Travels,  as  well  as  in  his  early  poem,  An  Indian 
Summer  Reverie.  His  father  was  a  Congregationalist  min 
ister  of  Boston,  and  the  family  to  which  he  belonged  has  had 
a  strong  representation  in  Massachusetts.  His  grandfather, 
John  Lowell,  was  an  eminent  jurist,  the  Lowell  Institute  of 
Boston  owes  its  endowment  to  John  Lowell,  a  cousin  of  the 
poet,  and  the  city  of  Lowell  was  named  after  Francis  Cabot 
Lowell,  an  uncle,  who  was  one  of  the  first  to  begin  the  man 
ufacturing  of  cotton  in  New  England. 

Lowell  was  a  student  at  Harvard,  and  was  graduated  in 
1838,  when  he  gave  a  class  poem,  and  in  1841  his  first  vol 
ume  of  poems,  A  Year's  Life,  was  published.  His  bent 
from  the  beginning  was  more  decidedly  literary  than  that  of 
any  contemporary  American  poet.  That  is  to  say,  the  his 
tory  and  art  of  literature  divided  his  interest  with  the  pro 
duction  of  literature,  and  he  carries  the  unusual  gift  of  rare 
critical  power,  joined  to  hearty,  spontaneous  creation.  It 
may  indeed  be  guessed  that  the  keenness  of  judgment  and 
incisiveness  of  wit  which  characterize  his  examination  of  lit 
erature  have  sometimes  interfered  with  his  poetic  power, 


214  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

and  made  him  liable  to  question  his  art  when  he  would 
rather  have  expressed  it  unchecked.  In  connection  with 
Robert  Carter,  a  litterateur  who  has  lately  died,  he  began, 
in  1843,  the  publication  of  The  Pioneer,  a  Literary  and 
Critical  Magazine,  which  lived  a  brilliant  life  of  three 
months.  A  volume  of  poetry  followed  in  1844,  and  the 
next  year  he  published  Conversations  on  Some  of  the  Old 
Poets,  —  a  book  which  is  now  out  of  print,  but  interesting 
as  marking  the  enthusiasm  of  a  young  scholar,  treading  a 
way  then  almost  wholly  neglected  in  America,  and  intimat 
ing  a  line  of  thought  and  study  in  which  he  afterward  made 
most  noteworthy  ventures.  Another  series  of  poems  fol 
lowed  in  1848,  and  in  the  same  year  The  Vision  of  Sir 
Launfal.  Perhaps  it  was  in  reaction  from  the  marked  sen 
timent  of  his  poetry  that  he  issued  now  a  jeu  d'esprit,  A 
Fable  for  Critics,  in  which  he  hit  off,  with  a  rough  and 
ready  wit,  the  characteristics  of  the  writers  of  the  day,  not 
forgetting  himself  in  these  lines  :  — 

"  There  is  Lowell,  who  *s  striving  Parnassus  to  climb 
With  a  whole  bale  of  isms  tied  together  with  rhyme  ; 
He  might  get  on  alone,  spite  of  brambles  and  boulders, 
But  he  can't  with  that  bundle  he  has  on  his  shoulders  ; 
The  top  of  the  hill  he  will  ne'er  come  nigh  reaching 
Till  he  learns  the  distinction  'twixt  .singing  and  preaching  J 
His  lyre  has  some  chords  that  would  ring  pretty  well, 
But  he  'd  rather  by  half  make  a  drum  of  the  shell, 
And  rattle  away  till  he  's  old  as  Methusalem, 
At  the  head  of  a  march  to  the  last  new  Jerusalem." 

This,  of  course,  is  but  a  half  serious  portrait  of  himself, 
and  it  touches  but  a  single  feature ;  others  can  say  better 
that  Lowell's  ardent  nature  showed  itself  in  the  series  of 
satirical  poems  which  made  him  famous,  The  Biglow  Pa 
pers,  written  in  a  spirit  of  indignation  and  fine  scorn,  when 
the  Mexican  War  was  causing  many  Americans  to  blush 
•with  shame  at  the  use  of  the  country  by  a  class  for  its  own 
ignoble  ends.  The  true  patriotism  which  marked  these  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  215 

other  of  his  early  poems  burned  with  a  steady  glow  in  after 
years,  and  illumined  poems  of  which  we  shall  speak  pres 
ently. 

After  a  year  and  a  half  spent  in  travel,  Lowell  was  ap 
pointed  in  1855  to  the  Belles  Lettres  professorship  at  Har 
vard,  previously  held  by  Longfellow.  When  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  was  established  in  1857  he  became  its  editor,  and 
soon  after  relinquishing  that  post  he  assumed  part  editorship 
of  the  North  American  Review.  In  these  two  magazines, 
as  also  in  Putnam's  Monthly,  he  published  poems,  essays, 
and  critical  papers,  which  have  been  gathered  into  vol« 
nmes.  His  prose  writings,  besides  the  volumes  already 
mentioned,  include  two  series  of  Among  my  Books,  histori 
cal  and  critical  studies,  chiefly  in  English  literature ;  and 
My  Study  Windows,  including,  with  similar  subjects,  obser 
vations  of  nature  and  contemporary  life.  During  the  war 
for  the  Union  he  published  a  second  series  of  the  Biglow 
Papers,  in  which,  with  the  wit  and  fun  of  the  earlier  series, 
there  was  mingled  a  deeper  strain  of  feeling  and  a  larger 
tone  of  patriotism.  The  limitations  of  his  style  in  these  sa 
tires  forbade  the  fullest  expression  of  his  thought  and  emo 
tion  ;  but  afterward  in  a  succession  of  poems,  occasioned  by 
the  honors  paid  to  student-soldiers  in  Cambridge,  the  death 
of  Agassiz,  and  the  celebration  of  national  anniversaries 
during  the  years  1875  and  1876,  he  sang  in  loftier,  more 
ardent  strains.  The  interest  which  readers  have  in  Lowell 
is  still  divided  between  his  rich,  abundant  prose,  and  biff 
thoughtful,  often  passionate  verse.  The  sentiment  of  his 
early  poetry,  always  humane,  was  greatly  enriched  by  larger 
experience  ;  so  that  the  themes  which  he  chose  for  his  later 
work  demanded  and  received  a  broad  treatment,  full  of 
sympathy  with  the  most  generous  instincts  of  their  time, 
and  built  upon  historic  foundations. 

In  1877  he  went  to  Spain  as  Minister  Plenipotentiary. 
In  1880  he  was  transferred  to  England  as  Minister  Pleni 
potentiary  near  the  Court  of  St.  James.  His  duties  as 


216  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

American  Minister  did  not  prevent  him  from  producing  oc 
casional  writings,  chiefly  in  connection  with  public  events. 
Notable  among  these  are  his  address  at  the  unveiling  of  a 
statue  of  Fielding,  and  his  address  on  Democracy. 

Mr.  Lowell  returned  to  the  United  States  in  1885,  and 
was  not  afterward  engaged  in  public  affairs,  but  passed  the 
rest  of  his  life  quietly  in  his  Cambridge  home,  prevented 
by  failing  health  from  doing  much  literary  work.  He  made 
a  collection  of  his  later  poems  in  1888,  under  the  title 
Heartsease  and  Rue,  and  carefully  revised  his  complete 
works,  published  in  ten  volumes  in  1890. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES. 

AN    ADDRESS  GIVEN  AT    THE   OPENING   OF    THE   FREE  PTJB 
LIC   LIBRARY   IN   CHELSEA,   MASS.,  22  DECEMBER,   1885. 

A  FEW  years  ago  my  friend,  Mr.  Alexander  Ire 
land,  published  a  very  interesting  volume  which  ho 
called  The  Book- Lover's  Enchiridion,  the  hand 
book,1  that  is  to  say,  of  those  who  love  books.  IT 
was  made  up  of  extracts  from  the  writings  of  a  great 
variety  of  distinguished  men,  ancient  and  modern,  in 
praise  of  books.  It  was  a  chorus  of  many  voices  in 
many  tongues,  a  hymn  of  gratitude  and  praise,  full 
of  such  piety  and  fervor  as  can  be  paralleled  only  in 
songs  dedicated  to  the  supreme  Power,  the  supreme 
Wisdom,  and  the  supreme  Love.  Nay,  there  is  a  glow 
of  enthusiasm  and  sincerity  in  it  which  is  often  pain 
fully  wanting  in  those  other  too  commonly  mechani 
cal  compositions.  We  feel  at  once  that  here  it  ia 
out  of  the  fulness  of  the  heart,  yes,  and  of  the  head 
too,  that  the  mouth  speaketh.  Here  was  none  of  that 
compulsory  commonplace  which  is  wont  to  charac 
terize  those  "  testimonials  of  celebrated  authors,"  by 
means  of  which  publishers  sometimes  strive  to  linger 
out  the  passage  of  a  hopeless  book  toward  its  requi- 
escat z  in  oblivion.  These  utterances  which  Mr.  Ire- 

1  Handbook  is  a  translation  of  the  Greek  word  enchiridion. 
8  It  was  once  more  common  than  now  to  place  upon  tomb 
stones  the  Latin  words  Requiescat  in  pact:  May  he  rest  in 


218  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

land  has  gathered  lovingly  together  are  stamped  with 
that  spontaneousness  which  is  the  mint-mark  of  all 
sterling  speech.  It  is  true  that  they  are  mostly,  as 
is  only  natural,  the  utterances  of  literary  men,  and 
there  is  a  well-founded  proverbial  distrust  of  herring 
that  bear  only  the  brand  of  the  packer,  and  not  that 
of  the  sworn  inspector.  But  to  this  objection  a  cynic 
might  answer  with  the  question,  "  Are  authors  so 
prone,  then,  to  praise  the  works  of  other  people  that 
vre  are  to  doubt  them  when  they  do  it  unasked  ?  " 
Perhaps  the  wisest  thing  I  could  have  done  to-night 
would  have  been  to  put  upon  the  stand  some  of  the 
more  weighty  of  this  cloud  of  witnesses.  But  since 
your  invitation  implied  that  I  should  myself  say 
something,  I  will  endeavor  to  set  before  you  a  few  of 
the  commonplaces  of  the  occasion,  as  they  may  be 
modified  by  passing  through  my  own  mind,  or  by  hav 
ing  made  themselves  felt  in  my  own  experience. 

The  greater  part  of  Mr.  Ireland's  witnesses  testify 
to  the  comfort  and  consolation  they  owe  to  books,  to 
the  refuge  they  have  found  in  them  from  sorrow  or 
misfortune,  to  their  friendship,  never  estranged  and 
outliving  all  others.  This  testimony  they  volunteered. 
Had  they  been  asked,  they  would  have  borne  evi 
dence  as  willingly  to  the  higher  and  more  general  uses 
of  books  in  their  service  to  the  commonwealth,  as  well 
as  to  the  individual  man.  Consider,  for  example, 
how  a  single  page  of  Burke  may  emancipate  the 
young  student  of  politics  from  narrow  views  and 
merely  contemporaneous  judgments.1  Our  English 
ancestors,  with  that  common-sense  which  is  one  of  the 

1  An  interesting  reference  to  Burke  as  a  political  thinker  will 
be  found  in  Mr.  Lowell's  paper,  The  Place  of  the  Independent  in 
Politics,  in  his  volume  of  Political  Essays. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  219 

most  useful,  though  not  one  of  the  most  engaging, 
properties  of  the  race,  made  a  rhyming  proverb,  which 
says  that  — 

"  When  land  and  goods  are  gone  and  spent 
Then  learning  is  most  excellent ;  " 

and  this  is  true  so  far  as  it  goes,  though  it  goes  per 
haps  hardly  far  enough.  The  law  also  calls  only  the 
earth  and  what  is  immovably  attached  to  it  real  1 
property,  but  I  am  of  opinion  that  those  only  are  real 
possessions  which  abide  with  a  man  after  he  has  been 
stripped  of  those  others  falsely  so  called,  and  which 
alone  save  him  from  seeming  and  from  being  the  mis 
erable  forked  radish  to  which  the  bitter  scorn  of  Lear 
degraded  every  child  of  Adam.2  The  riches  of  schol 
arship,  the  benignities  of  literature,  defy  fortune  and 
outlive  calamity.  They  are  beyond  the  reach  of  thief 
or  moth  or  rust.  As  they  cannot  be  inherited,  so 
they  cannot  be  alienated.  But  they  may  be  shared, 
they  may  be  distributed,  and  it  is  the  object  and  office 
of  a  free  public  library  to  perform  these  beneficent 
functions. 

"  Books,"  says  Wordsworth,  "  are  a  real  world,"  3 
and  he  was  thinking,  doubtless,  of  such  books  as  are 
not  merely  the  triumphs  of  pure  intellect,  however 
supreme,  but  of  those  in  which  intellect  infused  with 
the  sense  of  beauty  aims  rather  to  produce  delight 
than  conviction,  or,  if  conviction,  then  through  intui 
tion  rather  than  formal  logic,  and,  leaving  what  Donne 
wisely  calls  — 

1  What  is  personal  property  or  estate,  as  distinguished  fron_ 
real  f 

3  See  King  Lear,  Act  HE.  sc.  4 ;  but  see  King  Henry  IV ^ 
Part  II.,  Act  III.  sc.  2. 

*  In  what  poem  ? 


220  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

"  Unconcerning  things,  matters  of  fact,"  l 
to  science  and  the  understanding,  seeks  to  give  ideal 
expression  to  those  abiding  realities  of  the  spiritual 
world  for  which  the  outward  and  visible  world  serves 
at  best  but  as  the  husk  and  symbol.  Am  I  wrong  in 
using  the  word  realities  ?  wrong  in  insisting  on  the 
distinction  between  the  real  and  the  actual  ?  in  assum 
ing  for  the  ideal  an  existence  as  absolute  and  self- 
subsistent  as  that  which  appeals  to  our  senses,  nay, 
so  often  cheats  them,  in  the  matter  of  fact  ?  How 
very  small  a  part  of  the  world  we  truly  live  in  is 
represented  by  what  speaks  to  us  through  the  senses 
when  compared  with  that  vast  realm  of  the  mind 
which  is  peopled  by  memory  and  imagination,  and 
with  such  shining  inhabitants !  These  walls,  these 
faces,  what  are  they  in  comparison  with  the  countless 
images,  the  innumerable  popidation  which  every  one 
of  us  can  summon  up  to  the  tiny  show-box  of  the 
brain,  in  material  breadth  scarce  a  span,  yet  infinite 
as  space  and  time  ?  and  in  what,  I  pray,  are  those  we 
gravely  call  historical  characters,  of  which  each  new 
historian  strains  his  neck  to  get  a  new  and  different 
view,  in  any  sense  more  real  than  the  personages  of 
fiction  ?  Do  not  serious  and  earnest  men  discuss 

1  A  line  in  the  poem  Of  the  Progress  of  the  Soul.    The  passage 
Should  be  read  in  full. 

"  We  see  in  authors,  too  stiff  to  recant, 
A  hundred  controversies  of  an  ant ; 
And  yet  one  watches,  starves,  freezes,  and  sweats, 
To  know  but  catechisms  and  alphabets 
Of  unconcerning  things,  matters  of  fact, 
How  others  on  our  stage  their  parts  did  act, 
What  Caesar  did,  yea,  and  what  Cicero  said : 
Why  grass  is  green,  or  why  our  blood  is  red, 
Are  mysteries  which  none  have  reached  unto ; 
In  this  low  form,  poor  t.oul,  what  wilt  thou  do  ? 
Oh  1  when  wilt  thou  shake  off  this  pedantry, 
Of  being  taugiit  by  Miuae  and  lauUay  T  " 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  221 

Hamlet  as  they  would  Cromwell  or  Lincoln?  Does 
Caesar,  does  Alaric,  hold  existence  by  any  other  or 
stronger  tenure  than  the  Christian  of  Bunyan,  or  the 
Don  Quixote  of  Cervantes,  or  the  Antigone  of  Sopho 
cles?  Is  not  the  history  which  is  luminous  because 
of  an  indwelling  and  perennial  truth  to  nature,  be 
cause  of  that  light  which  never  was  on  sea  or  land,1 
really  more  true,  in  the  highest  sense,  than  many  a 
weary  chronicle  with  names  and  date  and  place  in 
which  "  an  Amurath  to  Amurath  succeeds  "  ?  Do  we 
know  as  much  of  any  authentic  Danish  prince  as  of 
Hamlet? 

But  to  come  back  a  little  nearer  to  Chelsea  and  the 
occasion  that  has  called  us  together.  The  founders 
of  New  England,  if  sometimes,  when  they  found  it 
needful,  an  impracticable,  were  always  a  practical 
people.  Their  first  care,  no  doubt,  was  for  an  ade 
quate  supply  of  powder,  and  they  encouraged  the 
manufacture  of  musket  bullets  by  enacting  that  they 
should  pass  as  currency  at  a  farthing  each,  —  a  coin 
age  nearer  to  its  nominal  value  and  not  heavier  than 
some  with  which  we  are  familiar.  Their  second  care 
was  that  "  good  learning  should  not  perish  from  among 
us,"  and  to  this  end  they  at  once  established  the 
Grammar  (Latin)  School2  in  Boston,  and  soon  after 
the  college  at  Cambridge.  The  nucleus  of  this  was, 
as  you  all  know,  the  bequest  in  money  by  John  Har 
vard.  Hardly  less  important,  however,  was  the  legacy 
of  his  library,  a  collection  of  good  books,  inconsideiv 

1  See  Wordsworth's  poem,  Elegiac  Stanzas  suggested  by  a 
Picture  of  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm. 

8  An  interesting  account  of  this  school  may  be  read  in  The 
Oldest  School  in  America,  containing  a  notable  historical  addrew 
by  Phillips  Brooks. 


222  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

able  measured  by  the  standard  of  to-day,  but  very 
considerable  then  as  the  possession  of  a  private  per 
son.  From  that  little  acorn  what  an  oak  has  sprung, 
and  from  its  acorns  again  what  a  vocal  forest,  as  old 
Howell  would  have  called  it  I  —  old  Howell,  whom  I 
love  to  cite,  because  his  name  gave  their  title  to  the 
Essays  of  Elia?  and  is  borne  with  slight  variation 
by  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  modern  authors.  It 
was,  in  my  judgment,  those  two  foundations,  more 
than  anything  else,  which  gave  to  New  England  char 
acter  its  bent,  and  to  Boston  that  literary  supremacy 
which,  I  am  told,  she  is  in  danger  of  losing,  but  which 
she  will  not  lose  till  she  and  all  the  world  lose  Holmes. 
The  opening  of  a  free  public  library,2  then,  is  a 
most  important  event  in  the  history  of  any  town.  A 
college  training  is  an  excellent  thing ;  but,  after  all, 
the  better  part  of  every  man's  education  is  that  which 
he  gives  himself,  and  it  is  for  this  that  a  good  library 
should  furnish  the  opportunity  and  the  means.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  our  public  schools  undertook 
to  teach  too  much,  and  that  the  older  system,  which 
taught  merely  the  three  R's,  and  taught  them  well, 
leaving  natural  selection  to  decide  who  should  go 
farther,  was  the  better.  However  this  may  be,  all 

1  Mr.  Lowell  here  conjectures  that  Lamb,  who  was  at  home 
in  quaint  English  literature,  adopted  his  signature  of  Elia  from 
the  Epistolce  Ho-Eliance  of  James  Howell,  a  writer  of  the  former 
half  of  the  seventeenth  century  ;  but  Lamb  himself,  in  a  letter 
to  his  publishers,  states  that  he  took  the  name  of  Elia,  which  he 
tells  them  to  pronounce  Ellia,  from  a  former  fellow-clerk  of  his 
At  the  India  House,  an  Italian  named  Elia. 

*  It  would  be  an  interesting  study  for  any  one  to  trace  the 
rise  and  growth  of  public  libraries  in  the  United  States.  Abun 
dant  material  will  be  found  in  a  Special  Report  issued  by  the 
Bureau  oi  Education  at  Washington  in  1876. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  223 

that  is  primarily  needful  in  order  to  use  a  library  is 
the  ability  to  read.  I  say  primarily,  for  there  must 
also  be  the  inclination,  and,  after  that,  some  guidance 
in  reading  well.  Formerly  the  duty  of  a  librarian 
was  considered  too  much  that  of  a  watch-dog,  to  keep 
people  as  much  as  possible  away  from  the  books,  and 
to  hand  these  over  to  his  successor  as  little  worn  by 
use  as  he  could.  Librarians  now,  it  is  pleasant  to  see, 
have  a  different  notion  of  their  trust,  and  are  in  the 
habit  of  preparing,  for  the  direction  of  the  inexperi 
enced,  lists  of  such  books  as  they  think  best  worth 
reading.  Cataloguing  has  also,  thanks  in  great  mea 
sure  to  American  librarians,  become  a  science,  and 
catalogues,  ceasing  to  be  labyrinths  without  a  clew, 
are  furnished  with  finger-posts  at  every  turn.  Sub 
ject  catalogues  again  save  the  beginner  a  vast  deal  of 
time  and  trouble  by  supplying  him  for  nothing  with 
one  at  least  of  the  results  of  thorough  scholarship,  the 
knowing  where  to  look  for  what  he  wants.  I  do  not 
mean  by  this  that  there  is  or  can  be  any  short  cut  to 
learning,  but  that  there  may  be,  and  is,  such  a  short 
cut  to  information  that  will  make  learning  more  easily 
accessible. 

But  have  you  ever  rightly  considered  what  the  mere 
ability  to  read  means  ?  That  it  is  the  key  which  ad 
mits  us  to  the  whole  world  of  thought  and  fancy  and 
imagination  ?  to  the  company  of  saint  and  sage,  of  the 
wisest  and  the  wittiest  at  their  wisest  and  wittiest  mo 
ment?  That  it  enables  us  to  see  with  the  keenest 
eyes,  hear  with  the  finest  ears,  and  listen  to  the  sweet 
est  voices  of  all  time  ?  More  than  that,  it  annihilates 
time  and  space  for  us;  it  revives  for  us  without  a 
miracle  the  Age  of  Wonder,  endowing  us  with  the 
shoes  of  swiftness  and  the  cap  of  darkness,  so  that  we 


224  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

walk  invisible  like  Fern-seed,1  and  witness  unharmed 
the  plague a  at  Athens  or  Florence  or  London ;  ac 
company  Caesar  on  his  marches,  or  look  in  on  Catiline 
in  council  with  his  fellow-conspirators,  or  Guy  Fawkes 
in  the  cellar  of  St.  Stephen's.  We  often  hear  of  peo 
ple  who  will  descend  to  any  servility,  submit  to  any 
insult,  for  the  sake  of  getting  themselves  or  their  chil 
dren  into  what  is  euphemistically  called  good  society. 
Did  it  ever  occur  to  them  that  there  is  a  select  society 
of  all  the  centuries  to  which  they  and  theirs  can  be 
admitted  for  the  asking,  a  society,  too,  which  will  not 
involve  them  in  ruinous  expense,  and  still  more  ruin 
ous  waste  of  time  and  health  and  faculties  ? 

Southey  tells  us  that,  in  his  walk  one  stormy  day, 
he  met  an  old  woman,  to  whom,  by  way  of  greeting, 
he  made  the  rather  obvious  remark  that  it  was  dread 
ful  weather.  She  answered,  philosophically,  that,  in 
her  opinion,  "  any  weather  was  better  than  none ! " 
I  should  be  half  inclined  to  say  that  any  reading  was 
better  than  none,  allaying  the  crudeness  of  the  state 
ment  by  the  Yankee  proverb,  which  tells  us  that, 
though  "  all  deacons  are  good,  there  's  odds  in  dea 
cons."  Among  books,  certainly,  there  is  much  variety 
of  company,  ranging  from  the  best  to  the  worst,  from 
Plato  to  Zola ;  and  the  first  lesson  in  reading  well  is 
that  which  teaches  us  to  distinguish  between  litera 
ture  and  merely  printed  matter.  The  choice  lies 
wholly  with  ourselves.  We  have  the  key  put  into 
our  hands;  shall  we  unlock  the  pantry  or  the  ora- 

1  Any  good  collection  of  fairy  tales  will  enable  one  to  re 
count  the  stories  which  make  use  of  the  shoes,  the  cap,  and  the 
fern-seed. 

1  Thacydides  describes  the  plague  at  Athens  ;  Defoe,  the 
plague  at  London. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  225 

tory?  There  is  a  Wallachian  legend  which,  like 
most  of  the  figments  of  popular  fancy,  has  a  moral  in 
it.  One  Bakala,  a  good-for-nothing  kind  of  fellow  in 
his  way,  having  had  the  luck  to  offer  a  sacrifice  espe 
cially  well  pleasing  to  God,  is  taken  up  into  heaven. 
He  finds  the  Almighty  sitting  in  something  like  the 
best  room  of  a  Wallachian  peasant's  cottage  —  there 
is  always  a  profound  pathos  in  the  homeliness  of  the 
popular  imagination,  forced,  like  the  princess  in  the 
fairy  tale,  to  weave  its  semblance  of  gold  tissue  out 
of  straw.  On  being  asked  what  reward  he  desires 
for  the  good  service  he  has  done,  Bakala,  who  had 
always  passionately  longed  to  be  the  owner  of  a  bag 
pipe,  seeing  a  half  worn-out  one  lying  among  some 
rubbish  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  begs  eagerly  that  it 
may  be  bestowed  on  him.  The  Lord,  with  a  smile  of 
pity  at  the  meanness  of  his  choice,  grants  him  his 
boon,  and  Bakala  goes  back  to  earth  delighted  with 
his  prize.  With  an  infinite  possibility  within  his 
reach,  with  the  choice  of  wisdom,  of  power,  of  beauty 
at  his  tongue's  end,  he  asked  according  to  his  kind, 
and  his  sordid  wish  is  answered  with  a  gift  as  sordid. 
Yes,  there  is  a  choice  in  books  as  in  friends,  and  the 
mind  sinks  or  rises  to  the  level  of  its  habitual  society, 
is  subdued,  as  Shakespeare  says  of  the  dyer's  hand, 
to  what  it  works  in.1  Cato's  advice,  cum  bonis  am- 
Tmla  (consort  with  the  good),  is  quite  as  true  if  we 
extend  it  to  books,  for  they,  too,  insensibly  give  away 
their  own  nature  to  the  mind  that  converses  with 
them.  They  either  beckon  upwards  or  drag  down. 
Du  gleichst  dem  Geist  den  du  begreifst?  says  the 
World  Spirit  to  Faust,  and  this  is  true  of  the  ascend- 

1  Sonnet  cxi. 

*  Thou  'rt  like  the  Spirit  whom  thou  conceivest. 


226  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

ing  no  less  than  of  the  descending  scale.  Every  book 
we  read  may  be  made  a  round  in  the  ever-lengthen 
ing  ladder  by  which  we  climb  to  knowledge,  and  to 
that  temperance  and  serenity  of  mind  which,  as  it  is 
the  ripest  fruit  of  Wisdom,  is  also  the  sweetest.  But 
this  can  only  be  if  we  read  such  books  as  make  us 
think,  and  read  them  in  such  a  way  as  helps  them  to 
do  so,  that  is,  by  endeavoring  to  judge  them,  and  thus 
to  make  them  an  exercise  rather  than  a  relaxation  of 
the  mind.  Desultory  reading,  except  as  conscious 
pastime,  hebetates  the  brain  and  slackens  the  bow 
string  of  Will.  It  communicates  as  little  intelligence 
as  the  messages  that  run  along  the  telegraph  wire  to 
the  birds  that  perch  on  it.  Few  men  learn  the  high 
est  use  of  books.  After  lifelong  study  many  a  man 
discovers  too  late  that  to  have  had  the  philosopher's 
stone  availed  nothing  without  the  philosopher  to  use 
it.  Many  a  scholarly  life,  stretched  like  a  talking 
wire  to  bring  the  wisdom  of  antiquity  into  communion 
with  the  present,  can  at  last  yield  us  no  better  news 
that  the  true  accent  of  a  Greek  verse,  or  the  transla 
tion  of  some  filthy  nothing  scrawled  on  the  walls  of 
a  brothel  by  some  Pompeian  idler.  And  it  is  cer 
tainly  true  that  the  material  of  thought  reacts  upon 
the  thought  itself.  Shakespeare  himself  would  have 
been  commonplace  had  he  been  paddocked  in  a  thinly- 
shaven  vocabulary,  and  Phidias,  had  he  worked  in 
wax,  only  a  more  inspired  Mrs.  Jarley.  A  man  is 
known,  says  the  proverb,  by  the  company  he  keeps, 
and  not  only  so,  but  made  by  it.  Milton  makes  his 
fallen  angels  grow  small  to  enter  the  infernal  council 
room,1  but  the  soul,  which  God  meant  to  be  the  spa 
cious  chamber  where  high  thoughts  and  generous  aspi- 
1  See  Paradise  Lost,  Book  I.  lines  776-798. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  227 

rations  might  commune  together,  shrinks  and  narrows 
itself  to  the  measure  of  the  meaner  company  that  is 
wont  to  gather  there,  hatching  conspiracies  against 
our  better  selves.  We  are  apt  to  wonder  at  the 
scholarship  of  the  men  of  three  centuries  ago,  and  at 
a  certain  dignity  of  phrase  that  characterizes  them. 
They  were  scholars  because  they  did  not  read  so  many 
things  as  we.  They  had  fewer  books,  but  these  were 
of  the  best.  Their  speech  was  noble  because  they 
lunched  with  Plutarch  and  supped  with  Plato.  We 
spend  as  much  time  over  print  as  they  did,  but  in 
stead  of  communing  with  the  choice  thoughts  pf 
choice  spirits,  and  unconsciously  acquiring  the  grand 
manner  of  that  supreme  society,  we  diligently  inform 
ourselves,  and  cover  the  continent  with  a  cobweb  of 
telegraphs  to  inform  us,  of  such  inspiring  facts  as 
that  a  horse  belonging  to  Mr.  Smith  ran  away  on 
Wednesday,  seriously  damaging  a  valuable  carryall  j 
that  a  son  of  Mr.  Brown  swallowed  a  hickory  nut 
on  Thursday ;  and  that  a  gravel  bank  caved  in  and 
buried  Mr.  Eobinson  alive  on  Friday.  Alas,  it  is  we 
ourselves  that  are  getting  buried  alive  under  this 
avalanche  of  earthy  impertinences!  It  is  we  who, 
while  we  might  each  in*  his  humble  way  be  helping 
our  fellows  into  the  right  path,  or  adding  one  block 
to  the  climbing  spire  of  a  fine  soul,  are  willing  to 
become  mere  sponges  saturated  from  the  stagnant 
goose-pond  of  village  gossip.  This  is  the  kind  of 
news  we  compass  the  globe  to  catch,  fresh  from  Bung- 
town  Centre,  when  we  might  have  it  fresh  from 
heaven  by  the  electric  lines  of  poet  or  prophet ! l  It  is 

1  It  might  not  be  uninstructive  for  one  to  make  such  compu 
tations  as  these  :  How  much  time  does  it  take  to  read  my  cus 
tomary  local  newspaper  ?  What  is  the  shortest  time  I  can  give 


228  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

bad  enough  that  we  should  be  compelled  to  know  so 
many  nothings,  but  it  is  downright  intolerable  that 
we  must  wash  so  many  barrow-loads  of  gravel  to  find 
a  grain  of  mica  after  all.  And  then  to  be  told  that 
the  ability  to  read  makes  us  all  shareholders  in  the 
Bonanza  Mine  of  Universal  Intelligence ! 

One  is  sometimes  asked  by  young  people  to  recom 
mend  a  course  of  reading.  My  advice  would  be  that 
they  should  confine  themselves  to  the  supreme  books 
in  whatever  literature,  or  still  better  to  choose  some 
one  great  author,  and  make  themselves  thoroughly 
familiar  with  him.  For,  as  all  roads  lead  to  Rome, 
so  do  they  likewise  lead  away  from  it,  and  you  will 
find  that,  in  order  to  understand  perfectly  and  weigh 
exactly  any  vital  piece  of  literature,  you  will  be 
gradually  and  pleasantly  persuaded  to  excursions  and 
explorations  of  which  you  little  dreamed  when  you 
began,  and  will  find  yourselves  scholars  before  you  are 
aware.  For  remember  that  there  is  nothing  less 
profitable  than  scholarship  for  the  mere  sake  of 
scholarship,  nor  anything  more  wearisome  in  the  at 
tainment.  But  the  moment  you  have  a  definite  aim, 
attention  is  quickened,  the  mother  of  memory,  and 
all  that  you  acquire  groups  and  arranges  itself  in  an 
order  that  is  lucid,  because  everywhere  and  always  it 
is  in  intelligent  relation  to  a  central  object  of  con 
stant  and  growing  interest.  This  method  ako  forces 
upon  us  the  necessity  of  thinking,  which  is,  after  all, 

bo  it  and  get  the  really  important  things  out  of  it  ?  How  many 
(lumbers  of  my  newspaper  would  correspond  in  time  of  reading 
with  Shakespeare's  Tempest  ?  How  much  should  I  remember  of 
the  papers  a  month  afterward  ?  how  much  of  The  Tempest  f  But 
newspapers  are  not  to  be  despised ;  only  we  are  to  atudy  ucon- 
omy  in  the  using  of  them. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  229 

the  highest  result  of  all  education.  For  what  we 
want  is  not  learning,  but  knowledge ;  that  is,  the 
power  to  make  learning  answer  its  true  end  as  a 
quickener  of  intelligence  and  a  widener  of  our  intel 
lectual  sympathies.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  every 
one  is  fitted  by  nature  or  inclination  for  a  definite 
course  of  study,  or  indeed  for  serious  study  in  any 
sense.  I  am  quite  willing  that  these  should  "  browse 
in  a  library,"  as  Dr.  Johnson  called  it,  to  their  hearts* 
content.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  only  way  in  which  time 
may  be  profitably  wasted.  But  desultory  reading 
will  not  make  a  "  full  man,"  as  Bacon  understood  it, 
of  one  who  has  not  Johnson's  memory,  his  power  of 
assimilation,  and,  above  all,  his  comprehensive  view  of 
the  relations  of  things.  "  Read  not,"  says  Lord  Bacon 
in  his  Essay  of  Studies?  "  to  contradict  and  confute  j 
nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted  ;  nor  to  find  talk 
and  discourse ;  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books 
are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some 
few  to  be  chewed  and  digested ;  that  is,  some  books 
are  to  be  read  only  in  parts ;  others  to  be  read,  but 
not  curiously  [carefully],  and  some  few  to  be  read 
wholly  and  with  diligence  and  attention.  Some  books 
also  may  be  read  by  deputy"  This  is  weighty  and 
well  said,  and  I  would  call  your  attention  especially 
to  the  wise  words  with  which  the  passage  closes.  Tho 
best  books  are  not  always  those  which  lend  themselves 
to  discussion  and  comment,  but  those  (like  Mon 
taigne's  Essays)  which  discuss  and  comment  our 
selves. 

I  have  been  speaking  of  such  books  as  should  be 

1  It  is  in  this  essay  that  the  reference  to  the  "full  man" 
occurs,  and  as  the  essay  is  not  long,  it  would  be  a  good  one  to 
•emmit  to  memory. 


230  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

chosen  for  profitable  reading.  A  public  library,  ol 
course,  must  be  far  wider  in  its  scope.  It  should  con 
tain  something  for  all  tastes,  as  well  as  the  material 
for  a  thorough  grounding  in  all  branches  of  know 
ledge.  It  should  be  rich  in  books  of  reference,  in 
encyclopaedias,1  where  one  may  learn  without  cost  of 
research  what  things  are  generally  known.  For  it  is 
far  more  useful  to  know  these  than  to  know  those  that 
are  not  generally  known.  Not  to  know  them  is  the 
defect  of  those  half-trained  and  therefore  hasty  men 
who  find  a  mare's  nest  on  every  branch  of  the  tree  of 
knowledge.  A  library  should  contain  ample  stores  of 
history,  which,  if  it  do  not  always  deserve  the  pomp 
ous  title  which  Bolingbroke  gave  it,  of  philosophy 
teaching  by  example,2  certainly  teaches  many  things 
profitable  for  us  to  know  and  lay  to  heart ;  teaches, 
among  other  things,  how  much  of  the  present  is  still 
held  in  mortmain  by  the  past ;  teaches  that,  if  there 
be  no  controlling  purpose,  there  is,  at  least,  a  sternly 
logical  sequence  in  human  affairs,  and  that  chance  has 
but  a  trifling  dominion  over  them  ;  teaches  why  things 
are  and  must  be  so  and  not  otherwise,  and  that,  of  all 
hopeless  contests,  the  most  hopeless  is  that  which  fools 
are  most  eager  to  challenge,  —  with  the  Nature  of 
Things;  teaches,  perhaps  more  than  anything  else, 
the  value  of  personal  character  as  a  chief  factor  in 
what  used  to  be  called  destiny,  for  that  cause  is  strong 

1  A  capital  subject  for  discussion  would  be  the  comparative 
merits  of  the  many  encyclopaedias  to  be  found  in  a  good  public 
library  ;  not  to  determine  which  is  the  best,  but  what  is  the 
charncteristic  of  each. 

a  There  is  another  suggestive  definition  of  history  made  by 
the  English  historian  E.  A.  Freeman,  and  used  as  a  motto  on 
the  title-page  of  the  various  Johns  Hopkins  University  Studies  in 
Historical  and  Political  Science. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  231 

which  has  not  a  multitude  but  one  strong  man  behind 
it.  History  is,  indeed,  mainly  the  biography  of  a  few 
imperial  men,  and  forces  home  upon  us  the  useful 
lesson  how  infinitesimally  important  our  own  private 
affairs  are  to  the  universe  in  general.  History  is 
clarified  experience,  and  yet  how  little  do  men  profit 
by  it ;  nay,  how  should  we  expect  it  of  those  who  so 
seldom  are  taught  anything  by  their  own  1  Delusions, 
especially  economical  delusions,  seem  the  only  things 
that  have  any  chance  of  an  earthly  immortality.  I 
would  have  plenty  of  biography.  It  is  no  insignificant 
fact  that  eminent  men  have  always  loved  their  Plu 
tarch,  since  example,  whether  for  emulation  or  avoid 
ance,  is  never  so  poignant  as  when  presented  to  us  in 
a  striking  personality.  Autobiographies  are  also  in 
structive  reading  to  the  student  of  human  nature, 
though  generally  written,  by  men  who  are  more  inter 
esting  to  themselves  than  to  their  fellow-men.  I  have 
been  told  that  Emerson  and  George  Eliot  agreed  in 
thinking  Rousseau's  Confessions  the  most  interesting 
book  they  had  ever  read. 

A  public  library  should  also  have  many  and  full 
shelves  of  political  economy,  for  the  dismal  science, 
as  Carlyle  called  it,  if  it  prove  nothing  else,  will  go 
far  towards  proving  that  theory  is  the  bird  in  the 
bush,  though  she  sing  more  sweetly  than  the  night 
ingale,  and  that  the  millennium  will  not  hasten  its 
coming  in  deference  to  the  most  convincing  string  of 
resolutions  that  were  ever  unanimously  adopted  in 
public  meeting.  It  likewise  induces  in  us  a  profound 
and  wholesome  distrust  of  social  panaceas. 

I  would  have  a  public  library  abundant  in  transla 
tions  of  the  best  books  in  all  languages,  for,  though 
no  work  of  genius  can  be  adequately  translated,  be- 


232  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

cause  every  word  of  it  is  permeated  with  what  Milton 
calls  "  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master  spirit "  which 
cannot  be  transfused  into  the  veins  of  the  best  trans 
lation,  yet  some  acquaintance  with  foreign  and  ancient 
literatures  has  the  liberalizing  effect  of  foreign  travel.1 
He  who  travels  by  translation  travels  more  hastily 
and  superficially,  but  brings  home  something  that  if 
worth  having,  nevertheless.  Translations  properly 
used,  by  shortening  the  labor  of  acquisition,  add  as 
many  years  to  our  lives  as  they  subtract  from  the  pro 
cesses  of  our  education.  Looked  at  from  any  but  the 
aesthetic  point  of  view,  translations  retain  whatever 
property  was  in  their  originals  to  enlarge,  liberalize, 
and  refine  the  mind.  At  the  same  time  I  would  have 
also  the  originals  of  these  translated  books,  as  a  temp 
tation  to  the  study  of  languages,  which  has  a  special 
Use  and  importance  of  its  own  in  teaching  us  to  under 
stand  the  niceties  of  our  mother-tongue.  The  prac 
tice  of  translation,  by  making  us  deliberate  in  the 
choice  of  the  best  equivalent  of  the  foreign  word  in 
our  own  language,  has  likewise  the  advantage  of  con 
tinually  schooling  us  in  one  of  the  main  elements  of  a 
good  style,  —  precision  ;  and  precision  of  thought  is 
not  only  exemplified  by  precision  of  language,  but  is 
largely  dependent  on  the  habit  of  it. 

In  such  a  library  the  sciences  should  be  fully  repre 
sented,  that  men  may  at  least  learn  to  know  in  what 
a  marvellous  museum  they  live,  what  a  wonder-worker 
is  giving  them  an  exhibition  daily  for  nothing.  Nor 
let  Art  be  forgotten  in  all  its  many  forms,  not  as  the 
antithesis  of  Science,  but  as  her  elder  or  fairer  sister, 

1  Emerson,  in  his  essay  entitled  Books,  in  the  volume  Society 
mnd  Solitude,  has  something  to  say  about  translations,  and  his 
temark  often  is  quoted. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  233 

whom  we  love  all  the  more  that  her  usefulness  cannot 
be  demonstrated  in  dollars  and  cents.  I  should  be 
thankful  if  every  day-laborer  among  us  could  have 
his  mind  illumined,  as  those  of  Athens  and  of  Flor 
ence  had,  with  some  image  of  what  is  best  in  archi 
tecture,  painting,  and  sculpture,  to  train  his  crude 
perceptions  and  perhaps  call  out  latent  faculties.  I 
should  like  to  see  the  works  of  Ruskin  within  the 
reach  of  every  artisan  among  us.  For  I  hope  some 
day  that  the  delicacy  of  touch  and  accuracy  of  eye 
that  have  made  our  mechanics  in  some  departments 
the  best  in  the  world,  may  give  us  the  same  supremacy 
in  works  of  wider  range  and  more  purely  ideal  scope. 

Voyages  and  travels  I  would  also  have,  good  store, 
especially  the  earlier,  when  the  world  was  fresh  and 
unhackneyed  and  men  saw  things  invisible  to  the 
modern  eye.  They  are  fast-sailing  ships  to  waft  away 
from  present  trouble  to  the  Fortunate  Isles. 

To  wash  down  the  drier  morsels  that  every  library 
must  necessarily  offer  at  its  board,  let  there  be  plenty 
of  imaginative  literature,  and  let  its  range  be  not 
too  narrow  to  stretch  from  Dante  to  the  elder  Dumas. 
The  world  of  the  imagination  is  not  the  world  of  ab 
straction  and  nonentity,  as  some  conceive,  but  a  world 
formed  out  of  chaos  by  a  sense  of  the  beauty  that  is 
in  man  and  the  earth  on  which  he  dwells.  It  is  the 
realm  of  Might-be,  our  haven  of  refuge  from  the  short- 
comings  and  disillusions  of  life.  It  is,  to  quote  Spen 
ser,  who  knew  it  well,  — 

44  The  world's  sweet  inn  from  care  and  wearisome  turmofl." 

Do  we  believe,  then,  that  God  gave  us  in  mockery 
this  splendid  faculty  of  sympathy  with  things  that  are 


234  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

a  joy  forever  ?  J  For  my  part,  I  believe  that  the  love 
and  study  of  works  of  imagination  is  of  practical 
utility  in  a  country  so  profoundly  material  (or,  as  we 
like  to  call  it,  practical)  in  its  leading  tendencies  as 
ours.  The  hunger  after  purely  intellectual  delights, 
the  content  with  ideal  possessions,  cannot  but  be  good 
for  us  in  maintaining  a  wholesome  balance  of  the 
character  and  of  the  faculties.  I  for  one  shall  never 
be  persuaded  that  Shakespeare  left  a  less  useful  leg 
acy  to  his  countrymen  than  Watt.  We  hold  all  the 
deepest,  all  the  highest  satisfactions  of  life  as  tenants 
of  imagination.  Nature  will  keep  up  the  supply  of 
what  are  called  hard-headed  people  without  our  help, 
and,  if  it  come  to  that,  there  are  other  as  good  uses 
for  heads  as  at  the  end  of  battering  rams. 

I  know  that  there  are  many  excellent  people  who 
object  to  the  reading  of  novels  as  a  waste  of  time,  if 
not  as  otherwise  harmful.  But  I  think  they  are  try 
ing  to  outwit  nature,  who  is  sure  to  prove  cunninger 
than  they.  Look  at  children.  One  boy  shall  want  a 
chest  of  tools,  and  one  a  book,  and  of  those  who  want 
books  one  shall  ask  for  a  botany,  another  for  a  ro 
mance.  They  will  be  sure  to  get  what  they  want, 
and  we  are  doing  a  grave  wrong  to  their  morals  by 
driving  them  to  do  things  on  the  sly,  to  steal  that 
food  which  their  constitution  craves  and  which  is 
wholesome  for  them,  instead  of  having  it  freely  and 
frankly  given  them  as  the  wisest  possible  diet.  If 
we  cannot  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear,  so 
neither  can  we  hope  to  succeed  with  the  opposite 
experiment.  But  we  may  spoil  the  silk  for  its  legiti 
mate  uses.  I  can  conceive  of  no  healthier  reading 

1  The  first  line  of  Keats's  poem  Endymion  suggested  this 
phrue. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  286 

for  a  boy,  or  girl  either,  than  Scott's  novels,  or 
Cooper's,  to  speak  only  of  the  dead.  I  have  found 
them  very  good  reading  at  least  for  one  young  man, 
for  one  middle-aged  man,  and  for  one  who  is  growing 
old.  No,  no  —  banish  the  Antiquary,  banish  Leather 
Stocking,  and  banish  all  the  world !  *  Let  us  not  go 
about  to  make  life  duller  than  it  is. 

But  I  must  shut  the  doors  of  my  imaginary  library 
or  I  shall  never  end.  It  is  left  for  me  to  say  a  few 
words  of  cordial  acknowledgment  to  Mr.  Fitz  for  his 
judicious  and  generous  gift.  I  have  great  pleasure 
in  believing  that  the  custom  of  giving  away  money 
during  their  lifetime  (and  there  is  nothing  harder  for 
most  men  to  part  with,  except  prejudice)  is  more  com 
mon  with  Americans  than  with  any  other  people. 
It  is  a  still  greater  pleasure  to  see  that  the  favorite 
direction  of  their  beneficence  is  towards  the  founding 
of  colleges  and  libraries.  My  observation  has  led  me 
to  believe  that  there  is  no  country  in  which  wealth  is 
so  sensible  of  its  obligations  as  our  own.  And,  as 
most  of  our  rich  men  have  risen  from  the  ranks,  may 
we  not  fairly  attribute  this  sympathy  with  their  kind 
to  the  benign  influence  of  democracy  rightly  under 
stood?  My  dear  and  honored  friend,  George  Wil 
liam  Curtis,  told  me  that  he  was  sitting  in  front  of 
the  late  Mr.  Ezra  Cornell  in  a  convention,  where  one 
of  the  speakers  made  a  Latin  quotation.  Mr.  Cornell 
leaned  forward  and  asked  for  a  translation  of  it, 
.which  Mr.  Curtis  gave  him.  Mr.  Cornell  thanked 
him,  and  added,  "If  I  can  help  it,  no  young  man 
shall  grow  up  in  New  York  hereafter  without  the 

1  In  Shakespeare's  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  /.,  Act  II.  sc.  4,  will 
be  found  the  phrase  which  was  in  Mr.  Lowell's  mind  when  ha 
Wrote  this. 


236  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

chance,  at  least,  of  knowing  what  a  Latin  quotation 
means  when  he  hears  it."  This  was  the  germ  of 
Cornell  University,1  and  it  found  food  for  its  roots  in 
that  sympathy  and  thoughtfulness  for  others  of  which 
I  just  spoke.  This  is  the  healthy  side  of  that  good 
nature  which  democracy  tends  to  foster,  and  which  is 
so  often  harmful  when  it  has  its  root  in  indolence 
or  indifference  ;  especially  harmful  where  our  public 
affairs  are  concerned,  and  where  it  is  easiest,  because 
there  we  are  giving  away  what  belongs  to  other  peo 
ple.  It  should  be  said,  however,  that  in  this  country 
it  is  as  laudably  easy  to  procure  signatures  to  a  sub 
scription  paper  as  it  is  shamefully  so  to  obtain  them 
for  certificates  of  character  and  recommendations  to 
office.  And  is  not  this  public  spirit  a  national  evolu 
tion  from  that  frame  of  mind  in  which  New  England 
was  colonized,  and  which  found  expression  in  these 
grave  words  of  Robinson  and  Brewster,2  "  We  are 
knit  together  as  a  body  in  a  most  strict  and  sacred 
bond  and  covenant  of  the  Lord,  of  the  violation  of 
•which  we  make  great  conscience,  and  by  virtue 
whereof  we  hold  ourselves  strictly  tied  to  all  care  of 
each  other's  good  and  of  the  whole  "  ?  Let  us  never 
forget  the  deep  and  solemn  import  of  these  words. 
The  problem  before  us  is  to  make  a  whole  of  our 
many  discordant  parts,  our  many  foreign  elements; 
and  I  know  of  no  way  in  which  this  can  better  be 
done  than  by  providing  a  common  system  of  educa 
tion,  and  a  common  door  of  access  to  the  best  books 
by  which  that  education  may  be  continued,  broadened, 

1  The  motto  about  the  seal  of  Cornell  University  indicates 
Mr.  Cornell's  conception  of  that  institution. 

8  In  a  letter  signed  jointly  by  them  to  Sir  Edwin  Sandys,  to 
be  found  in  Bradford's  History  of  Plymouth  Plantation,  page  20. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  23? 

and  made  fruitful.  For  it  is  certain  that,  whatever 
we  do  or  leave  undone,  those  discordant  parts  and 
foreign  elements  are  to  be,  whether  we  will  or  no, 
members  of  that  body  which  Robinson  and  Brewster 
had  in  mind,  bone  of  our  bone,  and  flesh  of  our  flesh, 
for  good  or  ill.  I  am  happy  in  believing  that  demo 
cracy  has  enough  vigor  of  constitution  to  assimilate 
these  seemingly  indigestible  morsels,  and  transmute 
them  into  strength  of  muscle  and  symmetry  of  limb.1 

There  is  no  way  in  which  a  man  can  build  so  secure 
and  lasting  a  monument  for  himself  as  in  a  public 
library.  Upon  that  he  may  confidently  allow  "Re- 
surgain  " 2  to  be  carved,  for,  through  his  good  deed, 
he  will  rise  again  in  the  grateful  remembrance  and  in 
the  lifted  and  broadened  minds  and  fortified  characters 
of  generation  after  generation.  The  pyramids  may 
forget  their  builders,  but  memorials  such  as  this  have 
longer  memories. 

Mr.  Fitz  has  done  his  part  in  providing  your  library 
with  a  dwelling.  It  will  be  for  the  citizens  of  Chelsea 
to  provide  it  with  worthy  habitants.  So  shall  they, 
too,  have  a  share  in  the  noble  eulogy  of  the  ancient 
wise  man :  "  The  teachers  shall  shine  as  the  firmament, 
and  they  that  turn  many  to  righteousness  as  the  stars 
forever  and  ever." 

1  For  a  fuller  statement  of  Mr.  Lowell's  faith,  see  his  afldress 
Democracy. 

2  This  Latin  word,  "  I  shall  rise  again,"  reappears  in  the  word 
resurrection. 


288  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN.1 

THERE  have  been  many  painful  crises  since  the  im 
patient  vanity  of  South  Carolina  hurried  ten  prosper. 
ous  Commonwealths  into  a  crime  whose  assured  retri 
bution  was  to  leave  them  either  at  the  mercy  of  the 
nation  they  had  wronged,  or  of  the  anarchy  they  had 
summoned  but  could  not  control,  when  no  thoughtful 
American  opened  his  morning  paper  without  dreading 
to  find  that  he  had  no  longer  a  country  to  love  and 
honor.  Whatever  the  result  of  the  convulsion  whose 
first  shocks  were  beginning  to  be  felt,  there  would  still 
be  enough  square  miles  of  earth  for  elbow-room  ;  but 
that  ineffable  sentiment  made  up  of  memory  and 
hope,  of  instinct  and  tradition,  which  swells  every 
man's  heart  and  shapes  his  thought,  though  perhaps 
never  present  to  his  consciousness,  would  be  gone 
from  it,  leaving  it  common  earth  and  nothing  more. 
Men  might  gather  rich  crops  from  it,  but  that  ideal 
harvest  of  priceless  associations  would  be  reaped  no 
longer  ;  that  fine  virtue  which  sent  up  messages  o£ 
courage  and  security  from  every  sod  of  it  would  have 
evaporated  beyond  recall.  We  should  be  irrevocably 
cut  off  from  our  past,  and  be  forced  to  splice  the 
ragged  ends  of  our  lives  upon  whatever  new  conditions 
chance  might  leave  dangling  for  us. 

We  confess  that  we  had  our  doubts  at  first  whether 
the  patriotism  of  our  people  were  not  too  narrowly 
provincial  to  embrace  the  proportions  of  national 

1  This  paper  was  published  by  Mr.  Lowell  originally  in  the 
North  American  Review  for  January,  1864.  When  he  reprinted  it 
B  his  volume,  My  Study  Windows,  he  added  the  filial  paragraph, 
and  inserted  a  few  sentences  eW  where. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  239 

peril.     We  felt  an  only  too  natural  distrust  of  im 
mense  public  meetings  and  enthusiastic  cheers. 

That  a  reaction  should  follow  the  holiday  enthusi 
asm  with  which  the  war  was  entered  on,  that  it  should 
follow  soon,  and  that  the  slackening  of  public  spirit 
should  be  proportionate  to  the  previous  over-tension, 
might  well  be  foreseen  by  all  who  had  studied  human 
nature  or  history.  Men  acting  gregariously  are  al 
ways  in  extremes  ;  as  they  are  one  moment  capable  of 
higher  courage,  so  they  are  liable,  the  next,  to  baser 
depression,  and  it  is  often  a  matter  of  chance  whether 
numbers  shall  multiply  confidence  or  discouragement. 
Nor  does  deception  lead  more  surely  to  distrust  of 
men,  than  self-deception  to  suspicion  of  principles. 
The  only  faith  that  wears  well  and  holds  its  color  in 
all  weathers  is  that  which  is  woven  of  conviction  and 
set  with  the  sharp  mordant  of  experience.  Enthusi 
asm  is  good  material  for  the  orator,  but  the  statesman 
needs  something  more  durable  to  work  in,  —  must  be 
able  to  rely  on  the  deliberate  reason  and  consequent 
firmness  of  the  people,  without  which  that  presence  of 
mind,  no  less  essential  in  times  of  moral  than  of  ma 
terial  peril,  will  be  wanting  at  the  critical  moment. 
Would  this  fervor  of  the  Free  States  hold  out  ?  Was 
it  kindled  by  a  just  feeling  of  the  value  of  constitu 
tional  liberty  ?  Had  it  body  enough  to  withstand  the 
inevitable  dampening  of  checks,  reverses,  delays? 
Had  our  population  intelligence  enough  to  comprehend 
that  the  choice  was  between  order  and  anarchy,  be 
tween  the  equilibrium  of  a  government  by  law  and  the 
tussle  of  misrule  by  pronunciamiento  ?  Could  a  war 
be  maintained  without  the  ordinary  stimulus  of  hatred 
and  plunder,  and  with  the  impersonal  loyalty  of  prin 
ciple  ?  Those  were  serious  questions,  and  with  no  pre 
cedent  to  aid  in  answering  them. 


240  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  war  there  was,  indeed,  oc 
casion  for  the  most  anxious  apprehension.  A  presi 
dent  known  to  be  infected  with  the  political  heresies, 
and  suspected  of  sympathy  with  the  treason,  of  the 
Southern  conspirators,  had  just  surrendered  the  reins, 
we  will  not  say  of  power,  but  of  chaos,  to  a  successor 
known  only  as  the  representative  of  a  party  whose 
leaders,  with  long  training  in  opposition,  had  none  in 
the  conduct  of  affairs ;  an  empty  treasury  was  called 
on  to  supply  resources  beyond  precedent  in  the  history 
of  finance ;  the  trees  were  yet  growing  and  the  iron 
unmined  with  which  a  navy  was  to  be  built  and  ar 
mored  ;  officers  without  discipline  were  to  make  a  mob 
into  an  army ;  and,  above  all,  the  public  opinion  of 
Europe,  echoed  and  reinforced  with  every  vague  hint 
and  every  specious  argument  of  despondency  by  a 
powerful  faction  at  home,  was  either  contemptuously 
sceptical  or  actively  hostile.  It  would  be  hard  to 
overestimate  the  force  of  this  latter  element  of  disin 
tegration  and  discouragement  among  a  people  where 
every  citizen  at  home,  and  every  soldier  in  the  field,  is 
a  reader  of  newspapers.  The  pedlers  of  rumor  in  the 
North  were  the  most  effective  allies  of  the  rebellion. 
A  nation  can  be  liable  to  no  more  insidious  treachery 
than  that  of  the  telegraph,  sending  hourly  its  electric 
thrill  of  panic  along  the  remotest  nerves  of  the  com 
munity,  till  the  excited  imagination  makes  every  real 
danger  loom  heightened  with  its  unreal  double. 

And  even  if  we  look  only  at  more  palpable  difficul 
ties,  the  problem  to  be  solved  by  our  civil  war  was  so 
vast,  both  in  its  immediate  relations  and  its  future 
consequences ;  the  conditions  of  its  solution  were  so 
intricate  and  so  greatly  dependent  on  incalculable  and 
uncontrollable  contingencies ;  so  many  of  the  data, 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  241 

whether  for  hope  or  fear,  were,  from  their  novelty, 
incapable  of  arrangement  under  any  of  the  categories 
of  historical  precedent,  that  there  were  moments  of 
crisis  when  the  firmest  believer  in  the  strength  and 
sufficiency  of  the  democratic  theory  of  government 
might  well  hold  his  breath  in  vague  apprehension  of 
disaster.  Our  teachers  of  political  philosophy,  sol 
emnly  arguing  from  the  precedent  of  some  petty  Gre 
cian,  Italian,  or  Flemish  city,  whose  long  periods  of 
aristocracy  were  broken  now  and  then  by  awkward 
parentheses  of  mob,  had  always  taught  us  that  demo- 
craoifes  were  incapable  of  the  sentiment  of  loyalty,  of 
concentrated  and  prolonged  effort,  of  far-reaching 
conceptions  ;  were  absorbed  in  material  interests  ;  im 
patient  of  regular,  and  much  more  of  exceptional  re 
straint  ;  had  no  natural  nucleus  of  gravitation,  nor  any 
forces  but  centrifugal ;  were  always  on  the  verge  of 
civil  war,  and  slunk  at  last  into  the  natural  almshouse 
of  bankrupt  popular  government,  a  military  despotism. 
Here  was  indeed  a  dreary  outlook  for  persons  who 
knew  democracy,  not  by  rubbing  shoulders  with  it 
lifelong,  but  merely  from  books,  and  America  only  by 
the  report  of  some  fellow-Briton,  who,  having  eaten  a 
bad  dinner  or  lost  a  carpet-bag  here,  had  written  to 
The  Times  demanding  redress,  and  drawing  a  mourn 
ful  inference  of  democratic  instability.  Nor  were  men 
wanting  among  ourselves  who  had  so  steeped  their 
brains  in  London  literature  as  to  mistake  Cockneyism 
for  European  culture,  and  contempt  of  their  country 
for  cosmopolitan  breadth  of  view,  and  who,  owing  all 
they  had  and  all  they  were  to  democracy,  thought  it 
had  an  air  of  high-breeding  to  join  in  the  shallow 
epicedium  that  our  bubble  had  burst. 

But  beside  any  disheartening  influences  which  might 


242  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

affect  the  timid  or  the  despondent,  there  were  reasons 
enough  of  settled  gravity  against  any  over-confidence 
of  hope.  A  war  —  which,  whether  we  consider  the 
expanse  of  the  territory  at  stake,  the  hosts  brought 
into  the  field,  or  the  reach  of  the  principles  involved, 
may  fairly  be  reckoned  the  most  momentous  of  mod 
ern  times  —  was  to  be  waged  by  a  people  divided  at 
home,  unnerved  by  fifty  years  of  peace,  under  a  chief 
magistrate  without  experience  and  without  reputation, 
whose  every  measure  was  sure  to  be  cunningly  ham 
pered  by  a  jealous  and  unscrupulous  minority,  and 
who,  while  dealing  with  unheard-of  complications  at 
home,  must  soothe  a  hostile  neutrality  abroad,  waiting 
only  a  pretext  to  become  war.  All  this  was  to  be 
done  without  warning  and  without  preparation,  while 
at  the  same  time  a  social  revolution  was  to  be  accom 
plished  in  the  political  condition  of  four  millions  of 
people,  by  softening  the  prejudices,  allaying  the  fears, 
and  gradually  obtaining  the  cooperation,  of  their  un 
willing  liberators.  Surely,  if  ever  there  were  an  occa 
sion  when  the  heightened  imagination  of  the  historian 
might  see  Destiny  visible  intervening  in  human  affairs, 
here  was  a  knot  worthy  of  her  shears.  Never,  per 
haps,  was  any  system  of  government  tried  by  so  con 
tinuous  and  searching  a  strain  as  ours  during  the  last 
three  years ;  never  has  any  shown  itself  stronger ; 
and  never  could  that  strength  be  so  directly  traced  to 
the  virtue  and  intelligence  of  the  people,  —  to  that 
general  enlightenment  and  prompt  efficiency  oi  public 
opinion  possible  only  under  the  influence  of  a  political 
framework  like  our  own.  We  find  it  hard  to  under 
stand  how  even  a  foreigner  should  be  blind  to  the 
grandeur  of  the  combat  of  ideas  that  has  been  going 
on  here,  —  to  the  heroic  energy,  persistency,  and  self- 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

reliance  of  a  nation  proving  that  it  knows  how  much 
dearer  greatness  is  than  mere  power  ;  and  we  own  that 
it  is  impossible  for  us  to  conceive  the  mental  and 
moral  condition  of  the  American  who  does  not  feel 
his  spirit  braced  and  heightened  by  being  even  a 
spectator  of  such  qualities  and  achievements.  That  a 
steady  purpose  and  a  definite  aim  have  been  given  to 
the  jarring  forces  which,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
spent  themselves  in  the  discussion  of  schemes  which 
could  only  become  operative,  if  at  all,  after  the  war 
was  over ;  that  a  popular  excitement  has  been  slowly 
intensified  into  an  earnest  national  will ;  that  a  some 
what  impracticable  moral  sentiment  has  been  made 
the  unconscious  instrument  of  a  practical  moral  end ; 
that  the  treason  of  covert  enemies,  the  jealousy  of 
rivals,  the  unwise  zeal  of  friends,  have  been  made  not 
only  useless  for  mischief,  but  even  useful  for  good ; 
that  the  conscientious  sensitiveness  of  England  to  the 
horrors  of  civil  conflict  has  been  prevented  from  com 
plicating  a  domestic  with  a  foreign  war  ;  —  all  these 
results,  any  cne  of  which  might  suffice  to  prove  great 
ness  in  a  ruler,  have  been  mainly  due  to  the  good 
sense,  the  good-humor,  the  sagacity,  the  large-minded- 
ness,  and  the  unselfish  honesty  of  the  unknown  man 
whom  a  blind  fortune,  as  it  seemed,  had  lifted  from 
the  crowd  to  the  most  dangerous  and  difficult  eminence 
of  modern  times.  It  is  by  presence  of  mind  in  un 
tried  emergencies  that  the  native  metal  of  a  man  is 
tested ;  it  is  by  the  sagacity  to  see,  and  the  fearless 
honesty  to  admit,  whatever  of  truth  there  may  be  in 
an  adverse  opinion,  in  order  more  convincingly  to 
expose  the  fallacy  that  lurks  behind  it,  that  a  reasoner 
at  length  gains  for  his  mere  statement  of  a  fact  the 
force  of  argument ;  it  is  by  a  wise  forecast  which 


244  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

allows  hostile  combinations  to  go  so  far  as  by  the  in 
evitable  reaction  to  become  elements  of  his  own  power, 
that  a  politician  proves  his  genius  for  state-craft ;  and 
especially  it  is  by  so  gently  guiding  public  sentiment 
that  he  seems  to  follow  it,  by  so  yielding  doubtful 
points  that  he  can  be  firm  without  seeming  obstinate 
in  essential  ones,  and  thus  guin  the  advantages  of  com 
promise  without  the  weakness  of  concession ;  by  so  in 
stinctively  comprehending  the  temper  and  prejudices 
of  a  people  as  to  make  them  gradually  conscious  of 
the  superior  wisdom  of  his  freedom  from  temper  and 
prejudice, — it  is  by  qualities  such  as  these  that  a 
magistrate  shows  himself  worthy  to  be  chief  in  a  com 
monwealth  of  freemen.  And  it  is  for  qualities  such 
as  these  that  we  firmly  believe  History  will  rank  Mr. 
Lincoln  among  the  most  prudent  of  statesmen  and  the 
most  successful  of  rulers.  If  we  wish  to  appreciate 
him,  we  have  only  to  conceive  the  inevitable  chaos  in 
which  we  should  now  be  weltering  had  a  weak  man  or 
an  unwise  one  been  chosen  in  his  stead. 

"  Bare  is  back,"  says  the  Norse  proverb,  "  without 
brother  behind  it ; "  and  this  is,  by  analogy,  true  of 
an  elective  magistracy.  The  hereditary  ruler  in  any 
critical  emergency  may  reckon  on  the  inexhaustible 
resources  of  prestige,  of  sentiment,  of  superstition,  of 
dependent  interest,  while  the  new  man  must  slowly 
and  painfully  create  all  these  out  of  the  unwilling 
material  around  him,  by  superiority  of  character,  by 
patient  singleness  of  purpose,  by  sagacious  presenti 
ment  of  popular  tendencies  and  instinctive  sympathy 
with  the  national  character.  Mr.  Lincoln's  task  was 
one  of  peculiar  and  exceptional  difficulty.  Long 
habit  had  accustomed  the  American  people  to  the 
notion  of  a  party  in  power,  and  of  a  President  as  its 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  245 

creature  and  organ,  while  the  more  vital  fact,  that  the 
executive  for  the  time  being  represents  the  abstract 
idea  of  government  as  a  permanent  principle  superior 
to  all  party  and  all  private  interest,  had  gradually 
become  unfamiliar.  They  had  so  long  seen  the  pub 
lic  policy  more  or  less  directed  by  views  of  party,  and 
often  even  of  personal  advantage,  as  to  be  ready  to 
suspect  the  motives  of  a  chief  magistrate  compelled, 
for  the  first  time  in  our  history,  to  feel  himself  the 
head  and  hand  of  a  great  nation,  and  to  act  upon  the 
fundamental  maxim,  laid  down  by  all  publicists,  that 
the  first  duty  of  a  government  is  to  defend  and  main 
tain  its  own  existence.  Accordingly,  a  powerful  wea 
pon  seemed  to  be  put  into  the  hands  of  the  opposition 
by  the  necessity  under  which  the  administration  found 
itself  of  applying  this  old  truth  to  new  relations.  Nor 
were  the  Opposition  his  only  nor  his  most  dangerous 
opponents. 

The  Republicans  had  carried  the  country  upon  an 
issue  in  which  ethics  were  more  directly  and  visibly 
mingled  with  politics  than  usual.  Their  leaders  were 
trained  to  a  method  of  oratory  which  relied  for  its 
effect  rather  on  the  moral  sense  than  the  understand 
ing.  Their  arguments  were  drawn,  not  so  much  from 
experience  as  from  general  principles  of  right  and 
wrong.  When  the  war  came,  their  system  continued 
to  be  applicable  and  effective,  for  here  again  the  rea 
son  of  the  people  was  to  be  reached  and  kindled 
through  their  sentiments.  It  was  one  of  those  periods 
of  excitement,  gathering,  contagious,  universal,  which, 
while  they  last,  exalt  and  clarify  the  minds  of  men, 
giving  to  the  mere  words  country,  human  rights,  de 
mocracy,  a  meaning  and  a  force  beyond  that  of  sober 
and  logical  argument.  They  were  convictions,  xuuiii- 


246  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

tained  and  defended  by  the  supreme  logic  of  passion. 
That  penetrating  fire  ran  in  and  roused  those  primary 
instincts  that  make  their  lair  in  the  dens  and  caverns 
of  the  mind.  What  is  called  the  great  popular  heart 
was  awakened,  that  indefinable  something  which  maj 
be,  according  to  circumstances,  the  highest  reason  or 
the  most  brutish  unreason.  But  enthusiasm,  once  cold, 
can  never  be  warmed  over  into  anything  better  than 
cant,  —  and  phrases,  when  once  the  inspiration  that 
filled  them  with  beneficent  power  has  ebbed  away, 
retain  only  that  semblance  of  meaning  which  enables 
them  to  supplant  reason  in  hasty  minds.  Among  the 
lessons  taught  by  the  French  Revolution  there  is  none 
sadder  or  more  striking  than  this,  that  you  may  make 
everything  else  out  of  the  passions  of  men  except  a 
political  system  that  will  work,  and  that  there  is  no 
thing  so  pitilessly  and  unconsciously  cruel  as  sincerity 
formulated  into  dogma.  It  is  always  demoralizing  to 
extend  the  domain  of  sentiment  over  questions  where 
it  has  no  legitimate  jurisdiction ;  and  perhaps  the  se 
verest  strain  upon  Mr.  Lincoln  was  in  resisting  a  ten 
dency  of  his  own  supporters  which  chimed  with  his 
own  private  desires  while  wholly  opposed  to  his  con 
victions  of  what  would  be  wise  policy. 

The  change  which  three  years  have  brought  about 
is  too  remarkable  to  be  passed  over  without  comment, 
too  weighty  in  its  lesson  not  to  be  laid  to  heart. 
Never  did  a  President  enter  upon  office  with  less 
means  at  his  command,  outside  his  own  strength  of 
heart  and  steadiness  of  understanding,  for  inspiring 
confidence  in  the  people,  and  so  winning  it  for  him 
self,  than  Mr.  Lincoln.  All  that  was  known  of  him 
was  that  he  was  a  good  stump-speaker,  nominated  for 
his  availability  >  —  that  is,  because  he  had  no  history, 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  247 

—  and  chosen  by  a  party  with  whose  more  extreme 
opinions  he  was  not  in  sympathy.  It  might  well  be 
feared  that  a  man  past  fifty,  against  whom  the  inge 
nuity  of  hostile  partisans  could  rake  up  no  accusation, 
must  be  lacking  in  manliness  of  character,  in  decision 
of  principle,  in  strength  of  will ;  that  a  man  who  was 
at  best  only  the  representative  of  a  party,  and  who  yet 
did  not  fairly  represent  even  that,  would  fail  of  politi 
cal,  much  more  of  popular,  support.  And  certainly 
no  one  ever  entered  upon  office  with  so  few  resources 
of  power  in  the  past,  and  so  many  materials  of  weak 
ness  in  the  present,  as  Mr.  Lincoln.  Even  in  that 
half  of  the  Union  which  acknowledged  him  as  Presi 
dent,  there  was  a  large,  and  at  that  time  dangerous 
minority,  that  hardly  admitted  his  claim  to  the  office, 
and  even  in  the  party  that  elected  him  there  was  also 
a  large  minority  that  suspected  him  of  being  secretly 
a  communicant  with  the  church  of  Laodicea.1  All 
that  he  did  was  sure  to  be  virulently  attacked  as  ultra 
by  one  side ;  all  that  he  left  undone,  to  be  stigmatized 
as  proof  of  lukewarmness  and  backsliding  by  the  other. 
Meanwhile  he  was  to  carry  on  a  truly  colossal  war  by 
means  of  both  ;  he  was  to  disengage  the  country  from 
diplomatic  entanglements  of  unprecedented  peril  un 
disturbed  by  the  help  or  the  hinderance  of  either,  and 
to  win  from  the  crowning  dangers  of  his  administra' 
tion,  in  the  confidence  of  the  people,  the  means  of  his 
safety  and  their  own.  He  has  contrived  to  do  it,  and 
perhaps  none  of  our  Presidents  since  Washington  haa 
stood  so  firm  in  the  confidence  of  the  people  as  he 
does  after  three  years  of  stormy  administration. 

Mr.   Lincoln's   policy  was  a    tentative   one,   and 
rightly  so.     He  laid  down  no  programme  which  must 
1  See  the  Book  of  Revelation,  chapter  3,  verse  15. 


248  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

compel  him  to  be  either  inconsistent  or  unwise,  nc 
cast-iron  theorem  to  which  circumstances  must  be 
fitted  as  they  rose,  or  else  be  useless  to  his  ends.  He 
seemed  to  have  chosen  Mazarin's  motto,  Le  temps  et 
moi.1  The  moi^  to  be  sure,  was  not  very  prominent 
at  first ;  but  it  has  grown  more  and  more  so,  till  the 
world  is  beginning  to  be  persuaded  that  it  stands  for  a 
character  of  marked  individuality  and  capacity  for  af 
fairs.  Time  was  his  prime-minister,  and,  we  began  to 
think,  at  one  period,  his  general-in-chief  also.  At  first 
he  was  so  slow  that  he  tired  out  all  those  who  see  no 
evidence  of  progress  but  in  blowing  up  the  engine; 
then  he  was  so  fast  that  he  took  the  breath  away  from 
those  who  think  there  is  no  getting  on  safely  while 
there  is  a  spark  of  fire  under  the  boilers.  God  is  the 
only  being  who  has  time  enough  ;  but  a  prudent  man, 
who  knows  how  to  seize  occasion,  can  commonly  make 
a  shift  to  find  as  much  as  he  needs.  Mr.  Lincoln,  as 
it  seems  to  us  in  reviewing  his  career,  though  we  have 
sometimes  in  our  impatience  thought  otherwise,  has 
always  waited,  as  a  wise  man  should,  till  the  right  mo 
ment  brought  up  all  his  reserves.  Semper  nocuit  dif- 
ferre  paratis?  is  a  sound  axiom,  but  the  really  effi 
cacious  man  will  also  be  sure  to  know  when  he  is  not 
ready,  and  be  firm  against  all  persuasion  and  reproach 
till  he  is. 

One  would  be  apt  to  think,  from  some  of  the  criti 
cisms  made  on  Mr.  Lincoln's  course  by  those  who 
mainly  agree  with  him  in  principle,  that  the  chief  ob 
ject  of  a  statesman  should  be  rather  to  proclaim  his 
adhesion  to  certain  doctrines,  than  to  achieve  their 

1  Time  and  I.     Cardinal  Mazarin  was  prime-minister  of  Louis 
XIV.  of  France.     Time,  Mazarin  said,  was  his  prime-minister. 
*  It  is  always  bad  for  those  who  are  ready  to  put  off  action. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  249 

triumph  by  quietly  accomplishing  his  ends.  In  our 
opinion,  there  is  no  more  unsafe  politician  than  a  con 
scientiously  rigid  doctrinaire,  nothing  more  sure  to 
«nd  in  disaster  than  a  theoretic  scheme  of  policy  that 
admits  of  no  pliability  for  contingencies.  True,  there 
is  a  popular  image  of  an  impossible  He,  in  whose  plas 
tic  hands  the  submissive  destinies  of  mankind  become 
as  wax,  and  to  whose  commanding  necessity  the  tough 
est  facts  yield  with  the  graceful  pliancy  of  fiction ;  but 
in  real  life  we  commonly  find  that  the  men  who  con 
trol  circumstances,  as  it  is  called,  are  those  who  have 
learned  to  allow  for  the  influence  of  their  eddies,  and 
have  the  nerve  to  turn  them  to  account  at  the  happy 
instant.  Mr.  Lincoln's  perilous  task  has  been  to  carry 
a  rather  shaky  raft  through  the  rapids,  making  fast 
the  unrulier  logs  as  he  could  snatch  opportunity,  and 
the  country  is  to  be  congratulated  that  he  did  not 
think  it  his  duty  to  run  straight  at  all  hazards,  but 
cautiously  to  assure  himself  with  his  setting-pole  where 
the  main  current  was,  and  keep  steadily  to  that.  He 
is  still  in  wild  water,  but  we  have  faith  that  his  skill 
and  sureness  of  eye  will  bring  him  out  right  at  last. 

A  curious,  and,  as  we  think,  not  inapt  parallel, 
might  be  drawn  between  Mr.  Lincoln  and  one  of  the 
most  striking  figures  in  modern  history,  —  Henry  IV. 
of  France.  The  career  of  the  latter  may  be  more  pic 
turesque,  as  that  of  a  daring  captain  always  is ;  but  in 
all  its  vicissitudes  there  is  nothing  more  romantic  than 
that  sudden  change,  as  by  a  rub  of  Aladdin's  lamp, 
from  the  attorney's  office  in  a  country  town  of  Illinois 
to  the  helm  of  a  great  nation  in  times  like  these.  The 
analogy  between  the  characters  and  circumstances  of 
the  two  men  is  in  many  respects  singularly  close. 
Succeeding  to  a  rebellion  rather  than  a  crown,  Henry's 


250  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

chief  material  dependence  was  the  Huguenot  party, 
whose  doctrines  sat  upon  him  with  a  looseness  dis 
tasteful  certainly,  if  not  suspicious  to  the  more  fanati 
cal  among  them.  King  only  in  name  over  the  greater 
part  of  France,  and  with  his  capital  barred  against 
him,  it  yet  gradually  became  clear  to  the  more  far- 
seeing  even  of  the  Catholic  party  that  he  was  the  only 
centre  of  order  and  legitimate  authority  round  which 
France  could  reorganize  itself.  While  preachers  who 
held  the  divine  right  of  kings  made  the  churches  of 
Paris  ring  with  declamations  in  favor  of  democracy 
rather  than  submit  to  the  heretic  dog  of  a  Bearnois,1 
—  much  as  our  soi-disant  Democrats  have  lately  been 
preaching  the  divine  right  of  slavery,  and  denouncing 
the  heresies  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, — 
Henry  bore  both  parties  in  hand  till  he  was  convinced 
that  only  one  course  of  action  could  possibly  combine 
his  own  interests  and  those  of  France.  Meanwhile 
the  Protestants  believed  somewhat  doubtfully  that  he 
was  theirs,  the  Catholics  hoped  somewhat  doubtfully 
that  he  would  be  theirs,  and  Henry  himself  turned 
aside  remonstrance,  advice,  and  curiosity  alike  with  a 
jest  or  a  proverb  (if  a  little  high,  he  liked  them  none 
the  worse),  joking  continually  as  his  manner  was. 
We  have  seen  Mr.  Lincoln  contemptuously  compared 
to  Sancho  Panza  by  persons  incapable  of  appreciating 
one  of  the  deepest  pieces  of  wisdom  in  the  prof  oundest 
romance  ever  written ;  namely,  that  while  Don  Qui 
xote  was  incomparable  in  theoretic  and  ideal  states 
manship,  Sancho,  with  his  stock  of  proverbs,  the 
ready  money  of  human  experience,  made  the  best  pos 
sible  practical  governor.  Henry  IV.  was  as  full  of 

1  One  of  Henry's  titles  was  Prince  of  Be'arn,  that  being  the 
old  province  of  France  from  which  he  came. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  251 

wise  saws  and  modern  instances  as  Mr.  Lincoln,  but 
beneath  all  this  was  the  thoughtful,  practical,  humane, 
and  thoroughly  earnest  man,  around  whom  the  frag 
ments  of  France  were  to  gather  themselves  till  she 
took  her  place  again  as  a  planet  of  the  first  magnitude 
in  the  European  system.  In  one  respect  Mr.  Lincoln 
was  more  fortunate  than  Henry.  However  some  may 
think  him  wanting  in  zeal,  the  most  fanatical  can  find 
no  taint  of  apostasy  in  any  measure  of  his,  nor  can 
the  most  bitter  charge  him  with  being  influenced  by 
motives  of  personal  interest.  The  leading  distinction 
between  the  policies  of  the  two  is  one  of  circumstances. 
Henry  went  over  to  the  nation  ;  Mr.  Lincoln  has  stead 
ily  drawn  the  nation  over  to  him.  One  left  a  united 
France ;  the  other,  we  hope  and  believe,  will  leave  a 
reunited  America.  We  leave  our  readers  to  trace  the 
further  points  of  difference  and  resemblance  for  them 
selves,  merely  suggesting  a  general  similarity  which 
has  often  occurred  to  us.  One  only  point  of  melan 
choly  interest  we  will  allow  ourselves  to  touch  upon. 
That  Mr.  Lincoln  is  not  handsome  nor  elegant,  we 
learn  from  certain  English  tourists  who  would  consider 
similar  revelations  in  regard  to  Queen  Victoria  as 
thoroughly  American  in  their  want  of  bienseance.  It 
is  no  concern  of  ours,  nor  does  it  affect  his  fitness  for 
the  high  place  he  so  worthily  occupies ;  but  he  is 
certainly  as  fortunate  as  Henry  in  the  matter  of  good 
looks,  if  we  may  trust  contemporary  evidence.  Mr. 
Lincoln  has  also  been  reproached  with  Americanism 
by  some  not  unfriendly  British  critics  ;  but,  with  al) 
deference,  we  cannot  say  that  we  like  him  any  the 
worse  for  it,  or  see  in  it  any  reason  why  he  should 
govern  Americans  the  less  wisely. 

People   of  more   sensitive    organizations    may  be 


252  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

shocked,  but  we  are  glad  that  in  this,  our  true  war  of 
independence,  which  is  to  free  us  forever  from  the  Old 
World,  we  have  had  at  the  head  of  our  affairs  a  man 
whom  America  made,  as  God  made  Adam,  out  of  the 
very  earth,  unancestried,  unprivileged,  unknown,  to 
show  us  how  much  truth,  how  much  magnanimity,  and 
how  much  statecraft  await  the  call  of  opportunity  in 
simple  manhood  when  it  believes  in  the  justice  of  God 
and  the  worth  of  man.  Conventionalities  are  all  very 
well  in  their  proper  place,  but  they  shrivel  at  the  touch 
of  nature  like  stubble  in  the  fire.  The  genius  that 
sways  a  nation  by  its  arbitrary  will  seems  less  august 
to  us  than  that  which  multiplies  and  reinforces  itself  in 
the  instincts  and  convictions  of  an  entire  people.  Au 
tocracy  may  have  something  in  it  more  melodramatic 
than  this,  but  falls  far  short  of  it  in  human  value  and 
interest. 

Experience  would  have  bred  in  us  a  rooted  distrust 
of  improvised  statesmanship,  even  if  we  did  not  believe 
politics  to  be  a  science,  which,  if  it  cannot  always  com 
mand  men  of  special  aptitude  and  great  powers,  at 
least  demands  the  long  and  steady  application  of  the 
best  powers  of  such  men  as  it  can  command  to  master 
even  its  first  principles.  It  is  curious,  that,  in  a  coun 
try  which  boasts  of  its  intelligence,  the  theory  should 
be  so  generally  held  that  the  most  complicated  of  hu 
man  contrivances,  and  one  which  every  day  becomes 
more  complicated,  can  be  worked  at  sight  by  any  man 
able  to  talk  for  an  hour  or  two  without  stopping  to 
think. 

Mr.  Lincoln  is  sometimes  claimed  as  an  example  of 
a  ready-made  ruler.  But  no  case  could  well  be  less  in 
point ;  for,  besides  that  he  was  a  man  of  such  fair- 
mindedness  as  is  always  the  raw  material  of  wisdom, 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  253 

he  had  in  his  profession  a  training  precisely  the  oppo 
site  of  that  to  which  a  partisan  is  subjected.  His  ex 
perience  as  a  lawyer  compelled  him  not  only  to  see 
that  there  is  a  principle  underlying  every  phenomenon 
in  human  affairs,  but  that  there  are  always  two  sides 
to  every  question,  both  of  which  must  be  fully  under 
stood  in  order  to  understand  either,  and  that  it  is  of 
greater  advantage  to  an  advocate  to  appreciate  the 
strength  than  the  weakness  of  his  antagonist's  position. 
Nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  unerring  tact 
with  which,  in  his  debate  with  Mr.  Douglas,  he  went 
straight  to  the  reason  of  the  question ;  nor  have  we 
ever  had  a  more  striking  lesson  in  political  tactics  than 
the  fact,  that  opposed  Co  a  man  exceptionally  adroit  in 
using  popular  prejudice  and  bigotry  to  his  purpose, 
exceptionally  unscrupulous  in  appealing  to  those  baser 
motives  that  turn  a  meeting  of  citizens  into  a  mob  of 
barbarians,  he  should  yet  have  won  his  case  before  a 
jury  of  the  people.  Mr.  Lincoln  was  as  far  as  possi 
ble  from  an  impromptu  politician.  His  wisdom  was 
made  up  of  a  knowledge  of  things  as  well  as  of  men ; 
his  sagacity  resulted  from  a  clear  perception  and  hon 
est  acknowledgment  of  difficulties,  which  enabled  him 
to  see  that  the  only  durable  triumph  of  political  opin 
ion  is  based,  not  on  any  abstract  right,  but  upon  so 
much  of  justice,  the  highest  attainable  at  any  given 
moment  in  human  affairs,  as  may  be  had  in  the  bal 
ance  of  mutual  concession.  Doubtless  he  had  an 
ideal,  but  it  was  the  ideal  of  a  practical  statesman,  — 
to  aim  at  the  best,  and  to  take  the  next  best,  if  he  is 
lucky  enough  to  get  even  that.  His  slow,  but  singu 
larly  masculine  intelligence  taught  him  that  precedent 
is  only  another  name  for  embodied  experience,  and 
that  it  counts  for  even  more  in  the  guidance  of  com- 


254  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

munities  of  men  than  in  that  of  the  individual  life. 
He  was  not  a  man  who  held  it  good  public  economy  to 
pull  down  on  the  mere  chance  of  rebuilding  better. 
Mr.  Lincoln's  faith  in  God  was  qualified  by  a  very 
well-founded  distrust  of  the  wisdom  of  man.  Perhaps 
it  was  his  want  of  self-confidence  that  more  than  any 
thing  else  won  him  the  unlimited  confidence  of  the 
people,  for  they  felt  that  there  would  be  no  need  of 
retreat  from  any  position  he  had  deliberately  taken. 
The  cautious,  but  steady,  advance  of  his  policy  during 
the  war  was  like  that  of  a  Roman  army.  He  left  be 
hind  him  a  firm  road  on  which  public  confidence  could 
follow ;  he  took  America  with  him  where  he  went ; 
what  he  gained  he  occupied,  and  his  advanced  posts 
became  colonies.  The  very  homeliness  of  his  genius 
was  its  distinction.  His  kingship  was  conspicuous  by 
its  workday  homespun.  Never  was  ruler  so  absolute 
as  he,  nor  so  little  conscious  of  it ;  for  he  was  the  in 
carnate  common-sense  of  the  people.  With  all  that 
tenderness  of  nature  whose  sweet  sadness  touched 
whoever  saw  him  with  something  of  its  own  pathos, 
there  was  no  trace  of  sentimentalism  in  his  speech  or 
action.  He  seems  to  have  had  but  one  rule  of  con 
duct,  always  that  of  practical  and  successful  politics, 
to  let  himself  be  guided  by  events,  when  they  were 
sure  to  bring  him  out  where  he  wished  to  go,  though 
by  what  seemed  to  unpractical  minds,  which  let  go  the 
possible  to  grasp  at  the  desirable,  a  longer  road. 

Undoubtedly  the  highest  function  of  statesmanship 
is  by  degrees  to  accommodate  the  conduct  of  commu 
nities  to  ethical  laws,  and  to  subordinate  the  conflict 
ing  self-interests  of  the  day  to  higher  and  more  per 
manent  concerns.  But  it  is  on  the  understanding, 
and  not  on  the  sentiment,  of  a  nation  that  all  safe 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  265 

legislation  must  be  based.  Voltaire's  saying,  that  "  a 
consideration  of  petty  circumstances  is  the  tomb  of 
great  things,"  may  be  true  of  individual  men,  but  it 
certainly  is  not  true  of  governments.  It  is  by  a  mul 
titude  of  such  considerations,  each  in  itself  trifling,  but 
all  together  weighty,  that  the  framers  of  policy  can 
alone  divine  what  is  practicable  and  therefore  wise. 
The  imputation  of  inconsistency  is  one  to  which  every 
sound  politician  and  every  honest  thinker  must  sooner 
or  later  subject  himself.  The  foolish  and  the  dead 
alone  never  change  their  opinion.  The  course  of  a 
great  statesman  resembles  that  of  navigable  rivers, 
avoiding  immovable  obstacles  with  noble  bends  of  con 
cession,  seeking  the  broad  levels  of  opinion  on  which 
men  soonest  settle  and  longest  dwell,  following  and 
marking  the  almost  imperceptible  slopes  of  national 
tendency,  yet  always  aiming  at  direct  advances,  always 
recruited  from  sources  nearer  heaven,  and  sometimes 
bursting  open  paths  of  progress  and  fruitful  human 
commerce  through  what  seem  the  eternal  barriers  of 
both.  It  is  loyalty  to  great  ends,  even  though  forced 
to  combine  the  small  and  opposing  motives  of  selfish 
men  to  accomplish  them ;  it  is  the  anchored  cling  to 
solid  principles  of  duty  and  action,  which  knows  how 
to  swing  with  the  tide,  but  is  never  carried  away  by  it, 
—  that  we  demand  in  public  men,  and  not  sameness 
of  policy,  or  a  conscientious  persistency  in  what  is  im 
practicable.  For  the  impracticable,  however  theoreti 
cally  enticing,  is  always  politically  unwise,  sound 
statesmanship  being  the  application  of  that  prudence 
to  the  public  business  which  is  the  safest  guide  in  that 
of  private  men. 

No  doubt  slavery  was  the  most  delicate  and  embar 
rassing  question  with  which  Mr.  Lincoln  was  called 


266  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

on  to  deal,  and  it  was  one  which  no  man  in  his  posi 
tion,  whatever  his  opinions,  could  evade  ;  for,  though 
lie  might  withstand  the  clamor  of  partisans,  he  must 
sooner  or  later  yield  to  the  persistent  importunacy  of 
circumstances,  which  thrust  the  problem  upon  him  at 
every  turn  and  in  every  shape. 

It  has  been  brought  against  us  as  an  accusation 
abroad,  and  repeated  here  by  people  who  measure 
their  country  rather  by  what  is  thought  of  it  than  by 
what  it  is,  that  our  war  has  not  been  distinctly  and 
avowedly  for  the  extinction  of  slavery,  but  a  war  rather 
for  the  preservation  of  our  national  power  and  great 
ness,  in  which  the  emancipation  of  the  negro  has  been 
forced  upon  us  by  circumstances  and  accepted  as  a 
necessity.  We  are  very  far  from  denying  this  ;  nay, 
we  admit  that  it  is  so  far  true  that  we  were  slow  to 
renounce  our  constitutional  obligations  even  toward 
those  who  had  absolved  us  by  their  own  act  from  the 
letter  of  our  duty.  We  are  speaking  of  the  govern- 
ment  which,  legally  installed  for  the  whole  country, 
was  bound,  so  long  as  it  was  possible,  net  to  overstep 
the  limits  of  orderly  prescription,  and  could  not,  with 
out  abnegating  its  own  very  nature,  take  the  lead  in 
making  rebellion  an  excuse  for  revolution.  There 
were,  no  doubt,  many  ardent  and  sincere  persons  who 
seemed  to  think  this  as  simple  a  thing  to  do  as  to  lead 
off  a  Virginia  reel.  They  forgot,  what  should  be  for 
gotten  least  of  all  in  a  system  like  ours,  that  the  ad 
ministration  for  the  time  being  represents  not  only 
the  majority  which  elects  it,  but  the  minority  as  well, 
—  a  minority  in  this  case  powerful,  and  so  little  ready 
for  emancipation  that  it  was  opposed  even  to  war. 
Mr.  Lincoln  had  not  been  chosen  as  general  agent  of 
an  anti-slavery  society,  but  President  of  the  United 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  257 

States,  to  perform  certain  functions  exactly  defined  by 
law.  Whatever  were  his  wishes,  it  was  no  less  duty 
than  policy  to  mark  out  for  himself  a  line  of  action 
that  would  not  further  distract  the  country,  by  raising 
before  their  time  questions  which  plainly  would  soon 
enough  compel  attention,  and  for  which  every  day 
was  making  the  answer  more  easy. 

Meanwhile  he  must  solve  the  riddle  of  this  new 
Sphinx,  or  be  devoured.  Though  Mr.  Lincoln's  policy 
in  this  critical  affair  has  not  been  such  as  to  satisfy 
those  who  demand  an  heroic  treatment  for  even  the 
most  trifling  occasion,  and  who  will  not  cut  their  coat 
according  to  their  cloth,  unless  they  can  borrow  the 
scissors  of  Atropos,1  it  has  been  at  least  not  unworthy 
of  the  long-headed  king  of  Ithaca.2  Mr.  Lincoln  had 
the  choice  of  Bassanio 3  offered  him.  Which  of  the 
three  caskets  held  the  prize  that  was  to  redeem  the 
fortunes  of  the  country  ?  There  was  the  golden  one 
whose  showy  speciousness  might  have  tempted  a  vain 
man ;  the  silver  of  compromise,  which  might  have  de 
cided  the  choice  of  a  merely  acute  one;  and  the 
leaden,  —  dull  and  homely-looking,  as  prudence  al 
ways  is,  —  yet  with  something  about  it  sure  to  attract 
the  eye  of  practical  wisdom.  Mr.  Lincoln  dallied 
with  his  decision  perhaps  longer  than  seemed  needful 
to  those  on  whom  its  awful  responsibility  was  not  to 
rest,  but  when  he  made  it,  it  was  worthy  of  his  cau 
tious  but  sure-footed  understanding.  The  moral  of 
the  Sphinx-riddle,  and  it  is  a  deep  one,  lies  in  the 
childish  simplicity  of  the  solution.  Those  who  fail  in 
guessing  it,  fail  because  they  are  over-ingenious,  and 

1  One  of  the  three  Fates. 

1  Odysseus,  or  Ulysses,  the  hero  of  Homer's  Odyssey. 

*  See  Shakespeare's  Merchant  of  Venice. 


268  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

cast  about  for  an  answer  that  shall  suit  their  own  no 
tion  of  the  gravity  of  the  occasion  and  of  their  own 
dignity,  rather  than  the  occasion  itself. 

In  a  matter  which  must  be  finally  settled  by  public 
opinion,  and  in. regard  to  which  the  ferment  of  preju 
dice  and  passion  on  both  sides  has  not  yet  subsided  to 
that  equilibrium  of  compromise  from  which  alone  a 
sound  public  opinion  can  result,  it  is  proper  enough 
for  the  private  citizen  to  press  his  own  convictions 
with  all  possible  force  of  argument  and  persuasion ; 
but  the  popular  magistrate,  whose  judgment  must  be 
come  action,  and  whose  action  involves  the  whole 
country,  is  bound  to  wait  till  the  sentiment  of  the 
people  is  so  far  advanced  toward  his  own  point  of 
view,  that  what  he  does  shall  find  support  in  it,  in 
stead  of  merely  confusing  it  with  new  elements  of  di 
vision.  It  was  not  unnatural  that  men  earnestly  de 
voted  to  the  saving  of  their  country,  and  profoundly 
convinced  that  slavery  was  its  only  real  enemy,  should 
demand  a  decided  policy  round  which  all  patriots 
might  rally,  —  and  this  might  have  been  the  wisest 
course  for  an  absolute  ruler.  But  in  the  then  unset 
tled  state  of  the  public  mind,  with  a  large  party  de 
crying  even  resistance  to  the  slaveholders'  rebellion  as 
not  only  unwise,  but  even  unlawful ;  with  a  majority, 
perhaps,  even  of  the  would-be  loyal  so  long  accus 
tomed  to  regard  the  Constitution  as  a  deed  of  gift 
conveying  to  the  South  their  own  judgment  as  to  pol 
icy  and  instinct  as  to  right,  that  they  were  in  doubt  at 
first  whether  their  loyalty  were  due  to  the  country  or 
to  slavery ;  and  with  a  respectable  body  of  honest  and 
influential  men  who  still  believed  in  the  possibility  of 
conciliation,  —  Mr.  Lincoln  judged  wisely,  that,  in 
laying  down  a  policy  in  deference  to  one  party,  ha 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  259 

should  be  giving  to  the  other  the  very  fulcrum  for 
which  their  disloyalty  had  been  waiting. 

It  behooved  a  clear-headed  man  in  his  position  not 
to  yield  so  far  to  an  honest  indignation  against  the 
brokers  of  treason  in  the  North  as  to  lose  sight  of  the 
materials  for  misleading  which  were  their  stock  in 
trade,  and  to  forget  that  it  is  not  the  falsehood  of 
sophistry  which  is  to  be  feared,  but  the  grain  of  truth 
mingled  with  it  to  make  it  specious,  —  that  it  is  not 
the  knavery  of  the  leaders  so  much  as  the  honesty  of 
the  followers  they  may  seduce,  that  gives  them  power 
for  evil.  It  was  especially  his  duty  to  do  nothing 
which  might  help  the  people  to  forget  the  true  cause 
of  the  war  in  fruitless  disputes  about  its  inevitable 
consequences. 

The  doctrine  of  State  rights  can  be  so  handled  by 
an  adroit  demagogue  as  easily  to  confound  the  distinc 
tion  between  liberty  and  lawlessness  in  the  minds  of 
ignorant  persons,  accustomed  always  to  be  influenced 
by  the  sound  of  certain  words,  rather  than  to  reflect 
upon  the  principles  which  give  them  meaning.  For, 
though  Secession  involves  the  manifest  absurdity  of 
denying  to  a  State  the  right  of  making  war  against 
any  foreign  power  while  permitting  it  against  the 
United  States ;  though  it  supposes  a  compact  of  mu 
tual  concessions  and  guaranties  among  States  without 
any  arbiter  in  case  of  dissension  ;  though  it  contra 
dicts  common-sense  in  assuming  that  the  men  who 
framed  our  government  did  not  know  what  they  meant 
when  they  substituted  Union  for  Confederation ; 
though  it  falsifies  history,  which  shows  that  the  main 
opposition  to  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution  was  based 
on  the  argument  that  it  did  not  allow  that  indepen 
dence  in  the  several  States  which  alone  would  justify 


260  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

them  in  seceding ;  —  yet,  as  slavery  was  universally 
admitted  to  be  a  reserved  right,  an  inference  could  be 
drawn  from  any  direct  attack  upon  it  (though  only  in 
self-defence)  to  a  natural  right  of  resistance,  logical 
enough  to  satisfy  minds  untrained  to  detect  fallacy, 
as  the  majority  of  men  always  are,  and  now  too  much 
disturbed  by  the  disorder  of  the  times,  to  consider  that 
the  order  of  events  had  any  legitimate  bearing  on  the 
argument.  Though  Mr.  Lincoln  was  too  sagacious  to 
give  the  Northern  allies  of  the  Rebels  the  occasion 
they  desired  and  even  strove  to  provoke,  yet  from  the 
beginning  of  the  war  the  most  persistent  efforts  have 
been  made  to  confuse  the  public  mind  as  to  its  origin 
and  motives,  and  to  drag  the  people  of  the  loyal  States 
down  from  the  national  position  they  had  instinctively 
taken  to  the  old  level  of  party  squabbles  and  antipa 
thies.  The  wholly  unprovoked  rebellion  of  an  oli 
garchy  proclaiming  negro  slavery  the  corner-stone  of 
free  institutions,  and  in  the  first  flush  of  over-hasty 
confidence  venturing  to  parade  the  logical  sequence  of 
their  leading  dogma,  "  that  slavery  is  right  in  princi 
ple,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  difference  of  com 
plexion,"  has  been  represented  as  a  legitimate  and 
gallant  attempt  to  maintain  the  true  principles  of  de 
mocracy.  The  rightful  endeavor  of  an  established 
government,  the  least  onerous  that  ever  existed,  to 
defend  itself  against  a  treacherous  attack  on  its  very 
existence,  has  been  cunningly  made  to  seem  the  wicked 
effort  of  a  fanatical  clique  to  force  its  doctrines  on 
an  oppressed  population. 

Even  so  long  ago  as  when  Mr.  Lincoln,  not  yet  con 
vinced  of  the  danger  and  magnitude  of  the  crisis,  was 
endeavoring  to  persuade  himself  of  Union  majorities  at 
the  South,  and  to  carry  on  a  wax  that  was  half  peace 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  261 

In  the  hope  of  a.  peace  that  would  have  been  all  war,  — 
while  he  was  still  enforcing  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law, 
under  some  theory  that  Secession,  however  it  might 
absolve  States  from  their  obligations,  could  not  es 
cheat  them  of  their  claims  under  the  Constitution,  and 
that  slaveholders  in  rebellion  had  alone  among  mortals 
the  privilege  of  having  their  cake  and  eating  it  at  the 
same  time,  —  the  enemies  of  free  government  were 
striving  to  persuade  the  people  that  the  war  was  an 
Abolition  crusade.  To  rebel  without  reason  was  pro 
claimed  as  one  of  the  rights  of  man,  while  it  was  care 
fully  kept  out  of  sight  that  to  suppress  rebellion  is  the 
first  duty  of  government.  All  the  evils  that  have 
come  upon  the  country  have  been  attributed  to  the 
Abolitionists,  though  it  is  hard  to  see  how  any  party 
can  become  permanently  powerful  except  in  one  of 
two  ways,  either  by  the  greater  truth  of  its  princi 
ples,  or  the  extravagance  of  the  party  opposed  to  it. 
To  fancy  the  ship  of  state,  riding  safe  at  her  constitu 
tional  moorings,  suddenly  engulfed  by  a  huge  kraken 
of  Abolitionism,  rising  from  unknown  depths  and 
grasping  it  with  slimy  tentacles,  is  to  look  at  the  nat 
ural  history  of  the  matter  with  the  eyes  of  Pontop- 
pidan.1  To  believe  that  the  leaders  in  the  Southern 
treason  feared  any  danger  from  Abolitionism,  would 
be  to  deny  them  ordinary  intelligence,  though  there 
can  be  little  doubt  that  they  made  use  of  it  to  stir  the 
passions  and  excite  the  fears  of  their  deluded  accom 
plices.  They  rebelled,  not  because  they  thought  slav 
ery  weak,  but  because  they  believed  it  strong  enough, 
not  to  overthrow  the  government,  but  to  get  posses 
sion  of  it ;  for  it  becomes  daily  clearer  that  they  used 
rebellion  only  as  a  means  of  revolution,  and  if  they 
1  A  Dauish  antiquary  and  theologian. 


262  TAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

got  revolution,  though  not  in  the  shape  they  looked 
for,  is  the  American  people  to  save  them  from  its  con 
sequences  at  the  cost  of  its  own  existence  ?  The  elec 
tion  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  which  it  was  clearly  in  their 
power  to  prevent  had  they  wished,  was  the  occasion 
merely,  and  not  the  cause  of  their  revolt.  Abolition 
ism,  till  within  a  year  or  two,  was  the  despised  heresy 
of  a  few  earnest  persons,  without  political  weight 
enough  to  carry  the  election  of  a  parish  constable; 
and  their  cardinal  principle  was  disunion,  because 
they  were  convinced  that  within  the  Union  the  posi 
tion  of  slavery  was  impregnable.  In  spite  of  the 
proverb,  great  effects  do  not  follow  from  small  causes, 
—  that  is,  disproportionately  small,  —  but  from  ade 
quate  causes  acting  under  certain  required  conditions. 
To  contrast  the  size  of  the  oak  with  that  of  the  parent 
acorn,  as  if  the  poor  seed  had  paid  all  costs  from  its 
slender  strong-box,  may  serve  for  a  child's  wonder ; 
but  the  real  miracle  lies  in  that  divine  league  which 
bound  all  the  forces  of  nature  to  the  service  of  the 
tiny  germ  in  fulfilling  its  destiny.  Everything  has 
been  at  work  for  the  past  ten  years  in  the  cause  of 
anti-slavery,  but  Garrison  and  Phillips  have  been  far 
less  successful  propagandists  than  the  slaveholders 
themselves,  with  the  constantly  growing  arrogance  of 
their  pretensions  and  encroachments.  They  have 
forced  the  question  upon  the  attention  of  every  voter 
in  the  Free  States,  by  defiantly  putting  freedom  and 
democracy  on  the  defensive.  But,  even  after  the 
Kansas  outrages,  there  was  no  wide-spread  desire  on 
the  part  of  the  North  to  commit  aggressions,  though 
there  was  a  growing  determination  to  resist  them. 
The  popular  unanimity  in  favor  of  the  war  three  yeart 
ago  was  but  in  small  measure  the  result  of  anti-slaver} 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN".  268 

sentiment,  far  less  of  any  zeal  for  abolition.  But 
every  month  of  the  war,  every  movement  of  the  allies 
of  slavery  in  the  Free  States,  has  been  making  Aboli 
tionists  by  the  thousand.  The  masses  of  any  people, 
however  intelligent,  are  very  little  moved  by  abstract 
principles  of  humanity  and  justice,  until  those  prin 
ciples  are  interpreted  for  them  by  the  stinging  com 
mentary  of  some  infringement  upon  their  own  rights, 
and  then  their  instincts  and  passions,  once  aroused, 
do  indeed  derive  an  incalculable  reinforcement  of 
impulse  and  intensity  from  those  higher  ideas,  those 
sublime  traditions,  which  have  no  motive  political 
force  till  they  are  allied  with  a  sense  of  immediate 
personal  wrong  or  imminent  peril.  Then  at  last  the 
stars  in  their  courses  begin  to  fight  against  Sisera. 
Had  any  one  doubted  before  that  the  rights  of  human 
nature  are  unitary,  that  oppression  is  of  one  hue  the 
world  over,  no  matter  what  the  color  of  the  oppressed, 
—  had  any  one  failed  to  see  what  the  real  essence  of 
the  contest  was,  —  the  efforts  of  the  advocates  of  slav 
ery  among  ourselves  to  throw  discredit  upon  the  fun 
damental  axioms  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
and  the  radical  doctrines  of  Christianity,  could  not 
fail  to  sharpen  his  eyes. 

While  every  day  was  bringing  the  people  nearer  to 
the  conclusion  which  all  thinking  men  saw  to  be  inev 
itable  from  the  beginning,  it  was  wise  in  Mr.  Lincoln 
to  leave  the  shaping  of  his  policy  to  events.  In  this 
country,  where  the  rough  and  ready  understanding  of 
the  people  is  sure  at  last  to  be  the  controlling  power1, 
a  profound  common-sense  is  the  best  genius  for  states 
manship.  Hitherto  the  wisdom  of  the  President's 
measures  has  been  justified  by  the  fact  that  they  have 
always  resulted  in  more  iirinly  uniting  public  opinion. 


264  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

One  of  the  things  particularly  admirable  in  the  public 
utterances  of  President  Lincoln  is  a  certain  tone  of 
familiar  dignity,  which,  while  it  is  perhaps  the  most 
difficult  attainment  of  mere  style,  is  also  no  doubtful 
indication  of  personal  character.  There  must  be 
something  essentially  noble  in  an  elective  ruler  who 
can  descend  to  the  level  of  confidential  ease  without 
losing  respect,  something  very  manly  in  one  who  can 
break  through  the  etiquette  of  his  conventional  rank 
and  trust  himself  to  the  reason  and  intelligence  of 
those  who  have  elected  him.  No  higher  compliment 
was  ever  paid  to  a  nation  than  the  simple  confidence, 
the  fireside  plainness,  with  which  Mr.  Lincoln  always 
addresses  himself  to  the  reason  of  the  American  people. 
This  was,  indeed,  a  true  democrat,  who  grounded  him 
self  on  the  assumption  that  a  democracy  can  think. 
"  Come,  let  us  reason  together  about  this  matter,"  has 
been  the  tone  of  all  his  addresses  to  the  people ;  and 
accordingly  we  have  never  had  a  chief  magistrate  who 
so  won  to  himself  the  love  and  at  the  same  time  the 
judgment  of  his  countrymen.  To  us,  that  simple  con 
fidence  of  his  in  the  right-mindedness  of  his  fellow- 
men  is  very  touching,  and  its  success  is  as  strong  an 
argument  as  we  have  ever  seen  in  favor  of  the  theory 
that  men  can  govern  themselves.  He  never  appeals 
to  any  vulgar  sentiment,  he  never  alludes  to  the  hum 
bleness  of  his  origin ;  it  probably  never  occurred  to 
him,  indeed,  that  there  was  anything  higher  to  start 
from  than  manhood ;  and  he  put  himself  on  a  level 
with  those  he  addressed,  not  by  going  down  to  them, 
but  only  by  taking  it  for  granted  that  they  had  brains 
and  would  come  up  to  a  common  ground  of  reason. 
In  an  article  lately  printed  in  The  Nation,  Mr.  Bay 
ard  Taylor  mentions  the  striking  fact,  that  in  the 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  265 

foulest  dens  of  the  Five  Points  he  found  the  portrait 
of  Lincoln.  The  wretched  population  that  makes  its 
hive  there  threw  all  its  votes  and  more  against  him, 
and  yet  paid  this  instinctive  tribute  to  the  sweet  hu 
manity  of  his  nature.  Their  ignorance  sold  its  vote 
and  took  its  money,  but  all  that  was  left  of  manhood 
in  them  recognized  its  saint  and  martyr. 

Mr.  Lincoln  is  not  in  the  habit  of  saying,  "  This  is 
my  opinion,  or  my  theory,"  but  "  This  is  the  conclu 
sion  to  which,  in  my  judgment,  the  time  has  come,  and 
to  which,  accordingly,  the  sooner  we  come  the  better 
for  us."  His  policy  has  been  the  policy  of  public 
opinion  based  on  adequate  discussion  and  on  a  timely 
recognition  of  the  influence  of  passing  events  in  shap 
ing  the  features  of  events  to  come. 

One  secret  of  Mr.  Lincoln's  remarkable  success  in 
captivating  the  popular  mind  is  undoubtedly  an  un 
consciousness  of  self  which  enables  him,  though  under 
the  necessity  of  constantly  using  the  capital  /,  to  do 
it  without  any  suggestion  of  egotism.  There  is  no 
single  vowel  which  men's  mouths  can  pronounce  with 
such  difference  of  effect.  That  which  one  shall  hide 
away,  as  it  were,  behind  the  substance  of  his  dis 
course,  or,  if  he  bring  it  to  the  front,  shall  use  merely 
to  give  an  agreeable  accent  of  individuality  to  what 
he  says,  another  shall  make  an  offensive  challenge  to 
the  self-satisfaction  of  all  his  hearers,  and  an  unwar 
ranted  intrusion  upon  each  man's  sense  of  personal 
importance,  irritating  every  pore  of  his  vanity,  like 
a  dry  northeast  wind,  to  a  goose-flesh  of  opposition 
and  hostility.  Mr.  Lincoln  has  never  studied  Quin- 
tilian ; J  but  he  has,  in  the  earnest  simplicity  and  un 
affected  Americanism  of  his  own  character,  one  art 
1  A  famous  Latin  writer  on  the  Art  of  Oratory. 


266  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

of  oratory  worth  all  the  rest.  He  forgets  himself  so 
entirely  in  his  object  as  to  give  his  /  the  sympathetic 
and  persuasive  effect  of  We  with  the  great  body  of 
his  countrymen.  Homely,  dispassionate,  showing  all 
the  rough-edged  process  of  his  thought  as  it  goes 
along,  yet  arriving  at  his  conclusions  with  an  honest 
kind  of  every-day  logic,  he  is  so  eminently  our  repre 
sentative  man,  that,  when  he  speaks,  it  seems  as  if  the 
people  were  listening  to  their  own  thinking  aloud. 
The  dignity  of  his  thought  owes  nothing  to  any  cere 
monial  garb  of  words,  but  to  the  manly  movement 
that  comes  of  settled  purpose  and  an  energy  of  reason 
that  knows  not  what  rhetoric  means.  There  has  been, 
nothing  of  Cleon,  still  less  of  Strepsiades 1  striving  to 
underbid  him  in  demagogism,  to  be  found  in  the  pub 
lic  utterances  of  Mr.  Lincoln.  He  has  always  ad 
dressed  the  intelligence  of  men,  never  their  prejudice, 
their  passion,  or  their  ignorance. 


On  the  day  of  his  death,  this  simple  Western  attor 
ney,  who  according  to  one  party  was  a  vulgar  joker, 
and  whom  the  doctrinaires  among  his  own  supporters 
accused  of  wanting  every  element  of  statesmanship, 
was  the  most  absolute  ruler  in  Christendom,  and  this* 
solely  by  the  hold  his  good-humored  sagacity  had  laid 
on  the  hearts  and  understandings  of  his  countrymen. 
Nor  was  this  all,  for  it  appeared  that  he  had  drawn 
the  great  majority,  not  only  of  his  fellow-citizens,  but 
of  mankind  also,  to  his  side.  So  strong  and  so  per 
suasive  is  honest  manliness  without  a  single  quality  of 
romance  or  unreal  sentiment  to  help  it !  A  civilian 

1  Two  Athenian  demagogues,  satirized  by  the  dramatist  Aris 
tophanes. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN'S  SPEECH.  267 

during  times  of  the  most  captivating  military  achieve' 
ment,  awkward,  with  no  skill  in  the  lower  technicali 
ties  of  manners,  he  left  behind  him  a  fame  beyond 
that  of  any  conqueror,  the  memory  of  a  grace  higher 
than  that  of  outward  person,  and  of  a  gentlemanliness 
deeper  than  mere  breeding.  Never  before  that  star 
tled  April  morning  did  such  multitudes  of  men  shed 
tears  for  the  death  of  one  they  had  never  seen,  as  if 
with  him  a  friendly  presence  had  been  taken  away  from 
their  lives,  leaving  them  colder  and  darker.  Never 
was  funeral  panegyric  so  eloquent  as  the  silent  look 
of  sympathy  which  strangers  exchanged  when  they 
met  on  that  day.  Their  common  manhood  had  lost  a 
kinsman. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN'S  SPEECH 

AT  THE    DEDICATION   OF    THE    NATIONAL    CEMETERY,   GET 
TYSBURG,  PENNSYLVANIA,  NOVEMBER  19,   1863. 

[THE  great  battles  fought  at  Gettysburg,  Pennsylvania, 
in  July,  1863,  made  that  spot  historic  ground.  It  was  early 
perceived  that  the  battles  were  critical,  and  they  are  now 
looked  upon  by  many  as  the  turning-point  of  the  war  for  the 
Union.  The  ground  where  the  fiercest  conflict  raged  was 
taken  for  a  national  cemetery,  and  the  dedication  of  the 
place  was  made  an  occasion  of  great  solemnity.  The  ora 
tor  of  the  day  was  Edward  Everett,  who  was  regarded  as 
the  most  finished  public  speaker  in  the  country.  Mr.  Ever 
ett  made  a  long  and  eloquent  address,  and  was  followed  by 
the  President  in  a  little  speech  which  instantaneously  af 
fected  the  country,  whether  people  were  educated  or  unlet 
tered,  as  a  great  speech.  The  impression  created  has  deep 
ened  with  time.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  in  his  essay  on 
Eloquence  says :  "  I  believe  it  to  be  true  that  when  any 


3G8  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

orator  at  the  bar  or  the  Senate  rises  in  his  thought,  he  de 
scends  in  his  language,  that  is,  when  he  rises  to  any  height 
of  thought  or  passion,  he  comes  down  to  a  language  level 
with  the  ear  of  all  his  audience.  It  is  the  merit  of  John 
Brown  and  of  Abraham  Lincoln  —  one  at  Charlestown,  one 
at  Gettysburg  —  in  the  two  best  specimens  of  eloquence  we 
have  had  in  this  country." 

It  is  worth  while  to  listen  to  Mr.  Lincoln's  own  account 
of  the  education  which  prepared  him  for  public  speaking. 
Before  he  was  nominated  for  the  presidency  he  had  at 
tracted  the  notice  of  people  by  a  remarkable  contest  in 
debate  with  a  famous  Illinois  statesman,  Stephen  Arnold 
Douglas.  As  a  consequence  Mr.  Lincoln  received  a  great 
many  invitations  to  speak  in  the  Eastern  States,  and  made, 
among  others,  a  notable  speech  at  the  Cooper  Union,  New 
York.  Shortly  after,  he  spoke  also  at  New  Haven,  and  the 
Rev.  J.  P.  Gulliver,  in  a  paper  in  the  New  York  Indepen 
dent,  Sept.  1,  1864,  thus  reports  a  conversation  which  "he 
held  with  him  when  travelling  in«the  same  railroad  car :  — 

"  ' Ah,  that  reminds  me,'  he  said,  '  of  a  most  extraordi 
nary  circumstance,  which  occurred  in  New  Haven,  the  other 
day.  They  told  me  that  the  Professor  of  Rhetoric  in  Yale 
College  —  a  veiy  learned  man,  is  n't  he  ?  '  '  Yes,  sir,  and 
a  very  fine  critic,  too.'  '  Well,  I  suppose  so ;  he  ought  to 
be,  at  any  rate  —  They  told  me  that  he  came  to  hear  me 
and  took  notes  of  my  speech,  and  gave  a  lecture  on  it  to  his 
class  the  next  day  ;  and,  not  satisfied  with  that,  he  followed 
me  up  to  Meriden  the  next  evening,  and  heard  me  again  for 
the  same  purpose.  Now,  if  this  is  so,  it  is  to  my  mind  very 
extraordinary.  I  have  been  sufficiently  astonished  at  my 
success  in  the  West.  It  has  been  most  unexpected.  But  I 
had  no  thought  of  any  marked  success  at  the  East,  and  least 
of  all  that  I  should  draw  out  such  commendations  from  lit 
erary  and  learned  men  ! ' 

" '  That  suggests,  Mr.  Lincoln,  an  inquiry  which  has  sev- 
iral  times  been  upon  my  lips  during  this  conversation.  I 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN'S  SPEECH.  269 

want  very  much  to  know  how  you  got  this  unusual  power  of 
"  putting  things."     It  must  have  been  a  matter  of  educa* 
tion.     No  man  has  it  by  nature  alone.    What  has  your  edu 
cation  heen  ? ' 

"  *  Well,  as  to  education,  the  newspapers  are  correct.  I 
never  went  to  school  more  than  six  months  in  my  life.  But, 
as  you  say,  this  must  be  a  product  of  culture  in  some  form. 
I  have  been  putting  the  question  you  ask  me  to  myself  while 
you  have  been  talking.  I  say  this,  that  among  my  earliest 
recollections,  I  remember  how,  when  a  mere  child,  I  used  to 
get  irritated  when  anybody  talked  to  me  in  a  way  I  could 
not  understand.  I  don't  think  I  ever  got  angry  at  anything 
else  in  my  life.  But  that  always  disturbed  my  temper,  and 
has  ever  since.  I  can  remember  going  to  my  little  bedroom, 
after  hearing  the  neighbors  talk  of  an  evening  with  my 
father,  and  spending  no  small  part  of  the  night  walking  up 
and  down,  and  trying  to  make  out  what  was  the  exact  mean 
ing  of  some  of  their,  to  me,  dark  sayings.  I  could  not 
sleep,  though  I  often  tried  to,  when  I  got  on  such  a  hunt 
after  an  idea,  until  I  had  caught  it ;  and  when  I  thought 
I  had  got  it,  I  was  not  satisfied  until  I  had  repeated  it 
over  and  over,  until  I  had  put  it  in  language  plain  enough, 
as  I  thought,  for  any  boy  I  knew  to  comprehend.  This  was 
a  kind  of  passion  with  me,  and  it  has  stuck  by  me,  for  I 
am  never  easy  now,  when  I  am  handling  a  thought,  till  I 
have  bounded  it  north  and  bounded  it  south  and  bounded  ik 
east  and  bounded  it  west.  Perhaps  that  accounts  for  the 
characteristic  you  observe  in  my  speeches,  though  I  never 
put  the  two  things  together  before.'  "  But  to  the  speech  it 
self.] 

FOURSCORE  and  seven  years  ago,  our  father 
brought  forth  on  this  continent  a  new  nation,  con 
ceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the  propositioi 
that  all  men  are  created  equal.  Now  we  are  engaged 
in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that  nation,  ol 


270  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long 
endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battlefield  of  that 
war.  We  have  come  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that 
field  as  a  final  resting-place  for  those  who  here  gave 
their  lives  that  that  nation  might  live.  It  is  alto 
gether  fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do  this. 
But  in  a  larger  sense  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot 
consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow  this  ground.  The  brave 
men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here,  have  conse 
crated  it  far  above  our  poor  power  to  add  or  detract. 
The  world  will  little  note,  nor  long  remember,  what 
we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they  did 
here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated 
here  to  the  unfinished  work  which  they  who  fought 
here  have  thus  far  so  nobly  advanced.  It  is  rather 
for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to  the  great  task  remain 
ing  before  us, — that  from  these  honored  dead  we  take 
increased  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which  they  gave 
the  last  full  measure  of  devotion,  —  that  we  here 
highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in 
vain,  —  that  this  nation,  under  God,  shall  have  a  new 
birth  of  freedom,  —  and  that  government  of  the  peo 
ple,  by  the  people,  for  the  people,  shall  not  perish 
from  the  earth. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 

[AUTHOR'S  NOTE.  —  According  to  the  mythology  of  the 
Romancers,  the  San  Greal,  or  Holy  Grail,  was  the  cup  out 
of  which  Jesus  Christ  partook  of  the  last  supper  with  his 
iisciples.  It  was  brought  into  England  by  Joseph  of  Arima- 
thea,  and  remained  there,  an  object  of  pilgrimage  and  ado 
ration,  for  many  years,  in  the  keeping  of  his  lineal  descend 
ants.  It  was  incumbent  upon  those  who  had  charge  of  it 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  271 

to  be  chaste  in  thought,  word,  and  deed ;  but  one  of  the 
keepers  having  broken  this  condition,  the  Holy  Grail  dis 
appeared.  From  that  time  it  was  a  favorite  enterprise  of 
the  Knights  of  Arthur's  court  to  go  in  search  of  it.  Sir 
Galahad  was  at  last  successful  in  finding  it,  as  may  be  read 
in  the  seventeenth  book  of  the  Romance  of  King  Arthur. 
Tennyson  has  made  Sir  Galahad  the  subject  of  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  of  his  poems. 

The  plot  (if  I  may  give  that  name  to  anything  so  slight) 
of  the  following  poem  is  my  own,  and,  to  serve  its  purposes, 
I  have  enlarged  the  circle  of  competition  in  search  of  the 
miraculous  cup  in  such  a  manner  as  to  include  not  only  othei 
persons  than  the  heroes  of  the  Bound  Table,  but  also  a 
period  of  time  subsequent  to  the  date  of  King  Arthur's 
reign.] 


PRELUDE  TO  PART  FIRST. 

OVER  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  fingers  wander  as  they  list, 

And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland  for  his  lay : 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved  instrument  fi 

Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer  draws  his  theme, 
First  guessed  by  faint  auroral  flushes  sent 

Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 


Not  only  around  our  infancy 

Doth  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  lie ;  IB 

9.  In  allusion  to  Wordsworth's 

"  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy," 

in  his  ode,  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  Early 
Childhood. 


272  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  plot, 
We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not. 

Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies  ; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies  :  II 

With  our  faint  hearts  the  mountain  strives ; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite ; 
And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea.  » 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us ; 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in, 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives  us, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in  ; 
At  the  Devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold,  • 

Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold ; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking : 

'T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'T  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking ;  » 

No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer ; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune,  » 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays  : 

27.  In  the  Middle  Ages  kings  and  noblemen  had  in  their 
courts  jesters  to  make  sport  for  the  company  ;  as  every  one 
then  wore  a  dress  indicating  his  rank  or  occupation,  so  the  jester 
wore  a  cap  hung  with  hells.  The  fool  of  Shakespeare's  plays  is 
the  king's  jester  at  his  best. 


THE   VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  273 

Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers,         « 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green,  « 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there  's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace  ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves,  •» 

And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives  ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings ; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest,  —    M 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay ;  M 

Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'T  is  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well  65 

How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  blossoms  swell ; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing ; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 


274  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing, 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing,  — 
And  hark !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing*! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how ; 
Everything  is  happy  now, 

Everything  is  upward  striving  ; 
'T  is  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue,  — 

'T  is  the  natural  way  of  living : 
Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake  ; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache ; 
The  soul  partakes  of  the  season's  youth,  • 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 
Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 

Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 
What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow  ? 


PART  FIRST. 

I. 

14  MY  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 
And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  276 

For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 

In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread,  m 

Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head, 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep ; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come  a  vision  true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew."  tot 

Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 

n. 

The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  threes, 

lu  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their  knees,        110 

The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 

The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 
And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees : 
The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray :  us 

'T  was  the  proudest  hall  in  the  North  Countree, 
And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be, 
Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree  ; 
Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 
But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied  j  nt 

She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall, 
Though  around  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions  tall 
Stretched  left  and  right, 
Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight; 

Green  and  broad  was  every  tent,  i*5 

And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 


276  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


m. 

The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly  clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger  sprang, 
Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight,  ix 

In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered  all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had  shot  over  its  wall 

In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  summers  long, 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing  sheaf,  ua 

•  Had  cast  them  forth :  so,  young  and  strong, 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf, 
Sir  Launfal  flashed  forth  in  his  unscarred  mail, 
To  seek  in  all  climes  for  the  Holy  GraiL 

rv. 

It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and  tree,  iw 

And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart ; 

Only  the  castle  moodily 

Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free, 
And  gloomed  by  itself  apart ; 

The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up  us 

Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant's  cup. 

V. 

As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the  darksome  gate, 

He  was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same, 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as  he  sate  ; 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came  ;  is» 

The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a  thrill, 

The  flesh  'neath  his  armor  'gan  shrink  and  crawl, 
And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall ; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature,  J» 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  277 

Hasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 

And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer  morn,  — - 

So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 

VI. 

The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the  dust : 

•*  Better  to  ma  the  poor  man's  crust,  18<M 

Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 

Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door ; 

That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can  hold ; 

He  gives  nothing  but  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty ;  m 

But  he  who  gives  but  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 
Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite,  — 
The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his  alms,  in 

The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness  before." 


PRELUDE  TO  PART  SECOND. 

DOWN  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak, 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old ;  in 

On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 
It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 

And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek : 

It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 

174.  Note  the  different  moods  that  are  indicated  by  the  two 
preludes.  The  one  is  of  June,  the  other  of  snow  and  winter. 
By  these  preludes  the  poet,  like  an  organist,  strikes  a  key  whiob 
he  holds  in  the  subsequent  parts. 


278  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare ;  m 

The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 

'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter-proof ; 

All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 

He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams ; 

Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars  i  ws 

As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars  j 

He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 

In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight ; 

Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 

Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt,  iw 

Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 

Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze ; 

Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 

But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew ; 

Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief  IM 

With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf ; 

Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 

For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and 

here 

He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 
And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond-drops,  a» 

That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun, 
And  made  a  star  of  every  one : 
No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 
Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice ; 
'T  was  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay  a* 

In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day, 
Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky, 
Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost, 

203.  The  Empress  of  Russia,  Catherine  II.,  in  a  magnificent 
freak,  built  a  palace  of  ice,  which  was  a  nine-days'  wonder. 
Cowper  has  given  a  poetical  description  of  it  in  The  Task,  Book 
V.  lines  131-176. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  279 

Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 
By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost.  fit 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  grow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly; 
Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide  au 

Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide ; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind ; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind ;  w 

And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp,  as 

Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 

Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 

A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own,  m 

Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 

Was  —  "  Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless  I " 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch, 

216.  The  Yule-log  was  anciently  a  huge  log  burned  at  the 
feast  of  Juul  (pronounced  Yule)  by  our  Scandinavian  ancestors 
in  honor  of  the  god  Thor.  Juul-tid  (Yule-time)  corresponded 
in  time  to  Christmas  tide,  and  when  Christian  festivities  took  the 
place  of  pagan,  many  ceremonies  remained.  The  great  log,  still 
called  the  Yule-log,  was  dragged  in  and  burned  in  the  fireplace 
alter  Thor  had  been  forgotten. 


280  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night  23* 

The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold, 
Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old, 

Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light, 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 


PART  SECOND. 


THERE  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree,  i* 

The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly ; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 

For  the  weaver  Winter  its  shroud  had  spun. 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun ;  >*• 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold, 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

n. 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate,  se» 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate  ; 

An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  cross,          m 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 

The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

m. 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 
Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  Larbed  air, 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  281 

For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time:  m 

So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 

And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long-ago ; 

He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 

O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small, 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one, 

He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 

As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 

To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 

The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade,       i» 

A.nd  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played, 

And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 

IV. 

"  For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms ;  '*  — 

The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring, 

But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsome  thing,          M 

The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 

That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 

And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 

In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 

v. 

And  Sir  Launfal  said,  —  "I  behold  in  thee  »o 

An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree; 

Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns,  — 

Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets  and  scorns,  — 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 

The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side :  a* 

Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me ; 

Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  Thee  1 " 


282  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise  an 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 
When  he  girt  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust  ; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust,  »» 

He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink  : 
'T  was  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl,  — 
Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed,          a» 

And  't  was  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty  souL 

VII. 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place  ; 

The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 

But  stood  before  him  glorified,  m 

Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 

As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate,  — 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 

Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 

vra. 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves  from  the 
pine,  3io 

And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brine, 
That  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 
With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon  ; 
And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than  silence  said, 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  288 

"  Lo,  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid !  a* 

In  many  climes,  without  avail, 

Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Behold,  it  is  here,  —  this  cup  which  thou 

Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  Me  but  now ; 

This  crust  is  My  body  broken  for  thee,  m 

This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the  tree ; 

The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 

In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need : 

Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share,  — 

For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare  ;  » 

Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three,  — 

Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  Me." 

rx. 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound :  — 

"  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found! 

Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall,  » 

Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet- hall ; 

He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 

Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail.*' 


The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 

And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall 

As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough : 
No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 

The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er ; 

When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door, 

She  entered  with  him  in  disguise, 

And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise ; 

There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 

She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole  year  round  j 


284  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 
Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command  ;  M» 

And  there 's  no  poor  man  in  the  North  Countree 
But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 


RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  was  born  in  Boston,  May  25, 
1803.  His  father,  his  grandfather,  and  his  great-grand 
father  were  all  ministers,  and,  indeed,  on  both  his  father's 
and  mother's  side  he  belongs  to  a  continuous  line  of  minis 
terial  descent  from  the  seventeenth  century.  At  the  time  of 
his  birth,  his  father,  the  Rev.  William  Emerson,  was  minis 
ter  of  the  First  Church  congregation,  but  on  his  death  a  few 
years  afterward,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  a  boy  of  seven, 
went  to  live  in  the  old  manse  at  Concord,  where  his  grand 
father  had  lived  when  the  Concord  fight  occurred.  The  old 
manse  was  afterward  the  home  at  one  time  of  Hawthorne, 
who  wrote  there  the  stories  which  he  gathered  into  the  vol 
ume,  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse. 

Emerson  was  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1821,  and  after 
teaching  a  year  or  two  gave  himself  to  the  study  of  divinity. 
From  1827  to  1832  he  preached  in  Unitarian  churches,  and 
was  for  four  years  a  colleague  pastor  in  the  Second  Church 
in  Boston.  He  then  left  the  ministry  and  afterward  devoted 
himself  to  literature.  He  travelled  abroad  in  1833,  in  1847, 
and  again  in  1872,  making  friends  among  the  leading  think 
ers  during  his  first  journey,  and  confirming  the  friendships 
when  again  in  Europe ;  with  the  exception  of  these  three 
journeys  and  occasional  lecturing  tours  in  the  United  States 
he  lived  quietly  at  Concord  until  his  death,  April  27,  1882. 

He  had  delivered  several  special  addresses,  and  in  his 
early  manhood  was  an  important  lecturer  in  the  Lyceum 


286  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

courses  which  were  so  popular,  especially  in  New  England, 
forty  years  ago,  but  his  first  published  book  was  Nature,  in 

1839.  Subsequent  prose  writings  were  his  Essays,  under 
that  title,  and  in  several  volumes  with  specific  titles,  Repre 
sentative  Men,  and  English  Traits.     In  form  the  prose  is 
either  the  oration  or  the  essay,  with  one  exception.     Eng 
lish  Traits  records  the  observations  of  the  writer  after  his 
first  two  journeys  to  England  ;  and  while  it  may  loosely  be 
•classed   among   essays,  it  has   certain  distinctive  features 
which  separate  it  from  the  essays  of  the  same  writer;  there 
is  in  it  narrative,  reminiscence,  and  description,  which  make 
it  more  properly  the  note-book  of  a  philosophic  traveller. 

It  may  be  said  of  his  essays  as  well  as  of  his  deliberate 
orations  that  the  writer  never  was  wholly  unmindful  of  an 
audience ;  he  was  conscious  always  that  he  was  not  merely 
delivering  his  mind,  but  speaking  directly  to  men.  One  is 
aware  of  a  certain  pointedness  of  speech  which  turns  the 
writer  into  a  speaker,  and  the  printed  words  into  a  sounding 
voice. 

He  wrote  poems  when  in  college,  but  his  first  publication 
of  verse  was  through  The  Dial,  a  magazine  established  in 

1840,  and  the  representative  of  a  knot  of  men  and  women 
of  whom    Emerson  was   the   acknowledged  or  unacknow 
ledged  leader.     The  first  volume   of  his  poems  was  pub 
lished  in  1847,   and  included  those  by  which  he  is  best 
known,  as  The  Problem,  The  Sphinx,  The  Rhodora,  The 
Humble  Bee,  Hymn  Sung  at  the  Completion  of  the  Con 
cord  Monument.     After  the  establishment  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  in  1857,  he  contributed  to  it  both  prose  and  poetr; , 
and  verses  published  in  the  early  numbers,  mere  enigmas  to 
some,  profound  revelations  to  others,  were  fruitful  of  discus 
sion  and  thought ;  his  second  volume  of  poems,  May  Day 
and  other  Pieces,  was  not  issued  until  1867.     Since  then  a 
volume  of  his  collected  poetry  has  appeared,  containing  most 
of  those  published  in  the  two  volumes,  and  a  few  in  addi 
tion.     We  are  told,  however,  that  the  published  writings  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  287 

Emerson  bear  but  small  proportion  to  the  unpublished. 
Many  lectures  have  been  delivered,  but  not  printed ;  many 
poems  written,  and  a  few  read,  which  have  never  been  pub 
lished.  The  inference  from  this,  borne  out  by  the  marks 
upon  what  has  been  published,  is  that  Mr.  Emerson  set  a 
high  value  upon  literature,  and  was  jealous  of  the  preroga 
tive  of  the  poet.  He  is  frequently  called  a  seer,  and  this 
old  word,  indicating  etymologically  its  original  intention,  is 
applied  well  to  a  poet  who  saw  into  nature  and  human  life 
with  a  spiritual  power  which  made  him  a  marked  man  in 
his  own  time,  and  one  destined  to  an  unrivalled  place  in  life- 
erature.  He  fulfilled  Wordsworth's  lines  :  — 

"  With  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy» 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things." 


BEHAVIOR. 

GBACE,  Beauty,  and  Caprice 

Build  this  golden  portal ; 

Graceful  women,  chosen  men, 

Dazzle  every  mortal : 

Their  sweet  and  lofty  countenance 

His  enchanting  food ; 

He  need  not  go  to  them,  their  forma 

Beset  his  solitude. 

He  looketh  seldom  in  their  face, 

Hia  eyes  explore  the  ground, 

The  green  grass  is  a  looking-glass 

Whereon  their  traits  are  found. 

Little  he  says  to  them, 

So  dances  his  heart  in  his  breast, 

Their  tranquil  mien  bereaveth  him 

Of  wit,  of  words,  of  rest. 

Too  weak  to  win,  too  fond  to  shun 

The  tyrants  of  his  doom, 

The  much-deceived  Endymion 

Blips  behind  a  tomb. 

THE  soul  which  animates  Nature  is  not  less  signifi 
cantly  published  in  the  figure,  movement,  and  gesture 
of  animated  bodies,  than  in  its  last  vehicle  of  articulate 
speech.  This  silent  and  subtile  language  is  Manners ; 
hot  what,  but  how.  Life  expresses.  A  statue  has  no 
tongue,  and  needs  none.  Good  tableaux  do  not  need 
declamation.  Nature  tells  every  secret  once.  Yes, 
but  in  man  she  tells  it  all  the  time,  by  form,  attitude, 
gesture,  mien,  face,  and  parts  of  the  face,  and  by  tbo 
whole  action  of  the  machine.  The  visible  carriage  or 
action  of  the  individual,  as  resulting  from  his  organi 
zation  and  his  will  combined,  we  call  manners.  What 
are  they  but  thought  entering  the  hands  and  feet,  con 
trolling  the  movements  of  the  body,  the  speech  and 
behavior  ? 


BEHA  VIOR.  289 

There  is  always  a  best  way  of  doing  everything,  if 
it  be  to  boil  an  egg.  Manners  are  the  happy  ways  of 
doing  things ;  each,  once  a  stroke  of  genius  or  of  love, 
—  now  repeated  and  hardened  into  usage.  They  form 
at  last  a  rich  varnish,  with  which  the  routine  of  life  is 
washed,  and  its  details  adorned.  If  they  are  super 
ficial,  so  are  the  dewdrops  which  give  such  a  depth  to 
the  morning  meadows.  Manners  are  very  communi 
cable  ;  men  catch  them  from  each  other.  Consuelo, 
in  the  romance,1  boasts  of  the  lessons  she  had  given 
the  nobles  in  manners,  on  the  stage ;  and,  in  real  life, 
Talma  2  taught  Napoleon  the  arts  of  behavior.  Genius 
invents  fine  manners,  which  the  baron  and  the  baron 
ess  copy  very  fast,  and,  by  the  advantage  of  a  palace, 
better  the  instruction.  They  stereotype  the  lesson 
they  have  learned  into  a  mode. 

The  power  of  manners  is  incessant,  —  an  element 
as  unconcealable  as  fire.  The  nobility  cannot  in  any 
country  be  disguised,  and  no  more  in  a  republic  or  a 
democracy  than  in  a  kingdom.  No  man  can  resist 
their  influence.  There  are  certain  manners  which  are 
learned  in  good  society,  of  that  force,  that,  if  a  person 
have  them,  he  or  she  must  be  considered,  and  is  every 
where  welcome,  though  without  beauty,  or  wealth,  or 
genius.  Give  a  boy  address  and  accomplishments, 
and  you  give  him  the  mastery  of  palaces  and  fortunes 
where  he  goes.  He  has  not  the  trouble  of  earning  or 
owning  them ;  they  solicit  him  to  enter  and  possess. 
We  send  girls  of  a  timid,  retreating  disposition  to  the 
boarding-school,  to  the  riding-school,  to  the  ball-room, 
or  wheresoever  they  can  come  into  acquaintance  and 
nearness  of  leading  persons  of  their  own  sex ;  where 

1  Of  the  same  name,  by  George  Sand. 
*  A  celebrated  actor. 


290  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

they  might  learn  address,  and  see  it  near  at  hand. 
The  power  of  a  woman  of  fashion  to  lead,  and  also  to 
daunt  and  repel,  derives  from  their  belief  that  she 
knows  resources  and  behaviors  not  known  to  them ; 
but  when  these  have  mastered  her  secret,  they  learn  to 
confront  her,  and  recover  their  self-possession. 

Every  day  bears  witness  to  their  gentle  rule.  People 
who  would  obtrude,  now  do  not  obtrude.  The  medi 
ocre  circle  learns  to  demand  that  which  belongs  to  a 
high  state  of  nature  or  of  culture.  Your  manners  are 
always  under  examination,  and  by  committees  little 
suspected,  —  a  police  in  citizens'  clothes,  —  but  are 
awarding  or  denying  you  very  high  prizes  when  you 
least  think  of  it. 

We  talk  much  of  utilities,  but 't  is  our  manners  that 
associate  us.  In  hours  of  business,  we  go  to  him  who 
knows,  or  has,  or  does  this  or  that  which  we  want,  and 
we  do  not  let  our  taste  or  feeling  stand  in  the  way. 
But  this  activity  over,  we  return  to  the  indolent  state, 
and  wish  for  those  we  can  be  at  ease  with ;  those  who 
will  go  where  we  go,  whose  manners  do  not  offend  us, 
whose  social  tone  chimes  with  ours.  When  we  reflect 
on  their  persuasive  and  cheering  force  ;  how  they  rec 
ommend,  prepare,  and  draw  people  together ;  how,  in 
all  clubs,  manners  make  the  members ;  how  manners 
make  the  fortune  of  the  ambitious  youth ;  that,  for  the 
most  part,  his  manners  marry  him,  and,  for  the  most 
part,  he  marries  manners ;  when  we  think  what  keys 
they  are,  and  to  what  secrets  ;  what  high  lessons  and 
inspiring  tokens  of  character  they  convey ;  and  what 
divination  is  required  in  us,  for  the  reading  of  this 
fine  telegraph,  we  see  what  range  the  subject  has,  and 
what  relations  to  convenience,  power,  and  beauty. 

Their  first  service  is  very  low,  —  when  they  are  the 


BEHA  VIOR.  291 

minor  morals  :  but 't  is  the  beginning  of  civility,  —  to 
make  us,  I  mean,  endurable  to  each  other.  We  prize 
them  for  their  rough-plastic,  abstergent  force ;  to  get 
people  out  of  the  quadruped  state  ;  to  get  them  washed, 
clothed,  and  set  up  on  end;  to  slough  their  animal 
husks  and  habits;  compel  them  to  be  clean;  overawe 
their  spite  and  meanness,  teach  them  to  stifle  the  base, 
and  choose  the  generous  expression,  and  make  them 
know  how  much  happier  the  generous  behaviors  are. 

Bad  behavior  the  laws  cannot  reach.  Society  is 
infested  with  rude,  cynical,  restless,  and  frivolous  per 
sons  who  prey  upon  the  rest,  and  whom  a  public  opinion 
concentrated  into  good  manners  —  forms  accepted  by 
the  sense  of  all — can  reach:  the  contradictors  and 
railers  at  public  and  private  tables,  who  are  like  ter 
riers,  who  conceive  it  the  duty  of  a  dog  of  honor  to 
growl  at  any  passer-by,  and  do  the  honors  of  the  house 
by  barking  him  out  of  sight ;  —  I  have  seen  men  who 
neigh  like  a  horse  when  you  contradict  them,  or  say 
something  which  they  do  not  understand :  —  then  the 
overbold,  who  make  their  own  invitation  to  your 
hearth ;  the  persevering  talker,  who  gives  you  his 
society  in  large,  saturating  doses ;  the  pitiers  of  them 
selves,  —  a  perilous  class ;  the  frivolous  Asmodeus, 
who  relies  on  you  to  find  him  in  ropes  of  sand  to 
twist ;  the  monotones ;  in  short,  every  stripe  of  ab 
surdity  ;  —  these  are  social  inflictions  which  the  magis 
trate  cannot  cure  or  defend  you  from,  and  which  must 
be  intrusted  to  the  restraining  force  of  custom,  and 
proverbs,  and  familiar  rules  of  behavior  impressed  on 
young  people  in  their  school-days. 

In  the  hotels  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  they 
print,  or  used  to  print,  among  the  rules  of  the  house, 
that  ^  no  gentleman  can  be  permitted  to  come  to  the 


292  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

public  table  without  his  coat ;  "  and  in  the  same  coun 
try,  in  the  pews  of  the  churches,  little  placards  plead 
with  the  worshipper  against  the  fury  of  expectoration. 
Charles  Dickens  self-sacrificingly  undertook  the  refor 
mation  of  our  American  manners  in  unspeakable  par 
ticulars.  I  think  the  lesson  was  not  quite  lost ;  that 
it  held  bad  manners  up,  so  that  the  churls  could  see 
the  deformity.  Unhappily,  the  book  had  its  own  de 
formities.  It  ought  not  to  need  to  print  in  a  reading- 
room  a  caution  to  strangers  not  to  speak  loud  ;  nor  to 
persons  who  look  over  fine  engravings,  that  they 
should  be  handled  like  cobwebs  and  butterflies'  wings ; 
nor  to  persons  who  look  at  marble  statues,  that  they 
shall  not  smite  them  with  canes.  But,  even  in  the 
perfect  civilization  of  this  city,  such  cautions  are  not 
quite  needless  in  the  Athenaeum  and  City  Library. 

Manners  are  factitious,  and  grow  out  of  circum 
stance  as  well  as  out  of  character.  If  you  look  at  the 
pictures  of  patricians  and  of  peasants,  of  different 
periods  and  countries,  you  will  see  how  -well  they 
match  the  same  classes  in  our  towns.  The  modern 
aristocrat  not  only  is  well  drawn  in  Titian's  Venetian 
doges,  and  in  Roman  coins  and  statues,  but  also  in  the 
pictures  which  Commodore  Perry  brought  home  of 
dignitaries  in  Japan.  Broad  lands  and  great  interests 
not  only  arrive  to  such  heads  as  can  manage  them,  but 
form  manners  of  power.  A  keen  eye,  too,  will  see 
nice  gradations  of  rank,  or  see  in  the  manners  the 
degree  of  homage  the  party  is  wont  to  receive.  A 
prince  who  is  accustomed  every  day  to  be  courted  and 
deferred  to  by  the  highest  grandees,  acquires  a  corre 
sponding  expectation,  and  a  becoming  mode  of  receiv 
ing  and  replying  to  this  homage. 

There  are   always  exceptional   people  and   modes. 


BEHA  VI  OR.  293 

English  grandees  affect  to  be  farmers.  Claverhouse 
is  a  fop,  and,  under  the  finish  of  dress,  and  levity  of 
behavior,  hides  the  terror  of  his  war.  But  Nature 
and  Destiny  are  honest,  and  never  fail  to  leave  their 
mark,  to  hang  out  a  sign  for  each  and  for  every  qual 
ity.  It  is  much  to  conquer  one's  face,  and  perhaps 
the  ambitious  youth  thinks  he  has  got  the  whole  secret 
when  he  has  learned  that  disengaged  manners  are 
commanding.  Don't  be  deceived  by  a  facile  exterior. 
Tender  men  sometimes  have  strong  wills.  We  had, 
in  Massachusetts,  an  old  statesman,  who  had  sat  all 
his  life  in  courts  and  in  chairs  of  state,  without  over 
coming  an  extreme  irritability  of  face,  voice,  and  bear 
ing  ;  when  he  spoke,  his  voice  would  not  serve  him ;  it 
cracked,  it  broke,  it  wheezed,  it  piped  :  little  cared  he ; 
he  knew  that  it  had  got  to  pipe,  or  wheeze,  or  screech 
his  argument  and  his  indignation.  When  he  sat  down, 
after  speaking,  he  seemed  in  a  sort  of  fit,  and  held  on 
to  his  chair  with  both  hands  ;  but  underneath  all  this 
irritability  was  a  puissant  will,  firm  and  advancing, 
and  a  memory  in  which  lay  in  order  and  method  like 
geologic  strata  every  fact  of  his  history,  and  under  the 
control  of  his  will. 

Manners  are  partly  factitious,  but,  mainly,  there 
must  be  capacity  for  culture  in  the  blood.  Else  all 
culture  is  vain.  The  obstinate  prejudice  in  favor  of 
blood,  which  lies  at  the  base  of  the  feudal  and  mon 
archical  fabrics  of  the  Old  World,  has  some  reason 
in  common  experience.  Every  man  —  mathematician, 
artist,  soldier,  or  merchant  —  looks  with  confidence 
for  some  traits  and  talents  in  his  own  child,  which  he 
would  not  dare  to  presume  in  the  child  of  a  stranger. 
The  Orientalists  are  very  orthodox  on  this  point. 
"Take  a  thorn-bush,"  said  the  emir  Abdel-Kader, 


294  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

*'  and  sprinkle  it  for  a  whole  year  with  water  ;  it  will 
yield  nothing  but  thorns.  Take  a  date-tree,  leave  it 
without  culture,  and  it  will  always  produce  dates. 
Nobility  is  the  date-tree,  and  the  Arab  populace  is  a 
bush  of  thorns." 

A  main  fact  in  the  history  of  manners  is  the  won 
derful  expressiveness  of  the  human  body.  If  it  were 
made  of  glass,  or  of  air,  and  the  thoughts  were  written 
on  steel  tablets  within,  it  could  not  publish  more  truly 
its  meaning  than  now.  Wise  men  read  very  sharply 
all  your  private  history  in  your  look  and  gait  and  be 
havior.  The  whole  economy  of  nature  is  bent  on  ex 
pression.  The  tell-tale  body  is  all  tongues.  Men  are 
like  Geneva  watches  with  crystal  faces  which  expose 
the  whole  movement.  They  carry  the  liquor  of  life 
flowing  up  and  down  in  these  beautiful  bottles,  and 
announcing  to  the  curious  how  it  is  with  them.  The 
face  and  eyes  reveal  what  the  spirit  is  doing,  how  old 
it  is,  what  aims  it  has.  The  eyes  indicate  the  antiquity 
of  the  soul,  or  through  how  many  forms  it  has  already 
ascended.  It  almost  violates  the  proprieties,  if  we 
say  above  the  breath  here,  what  the  confessing  eyes 
do  not  hesitate  to  utter  to  every  street  passenger. 

Man  cannot  fix  his  eye  on  the  sun,  and  so  far  seems 
imperfect.  In  Siberia,  a  late  traveller  found  men 
who  could  see  the  satellites  of  Jupiter  with  their  un 
armed  eye.  In  some  respects  the  animals  excel  us. 
The  birds  have  a  longer  sight,  beside  the  advantage 
by  their  wings  of  a  higher  observatory.  A  cow  can 
bid  her  calf,  by  secret  signal,  probably  of  the  eye,  to 
run  away,  or  to  lie  down  and  hide  itself.  The  jockeys 
say  of  certain  horses,  that  "  they  look  over  the  whole 
ground."  The  out-door  life,  and  hunting,  and  labor, 
give  equal  vigor  to  the  human  eye.  A  farmer  looks 


BEHA  VIOR.  295 

out  at  you  as  strong  as  the  horse  ;  his  eye-beam  is  like 
the  stroke  of  a  staff.  An  eye  can  threaten  like  a 
loaded  and  levelled  gun,  or  can  insult  like  hissing  or 
kicking ;  or,  in  its  altered  mood,  by  beams  of  kind 
ness,  it  can  make  the  heart  dance  with  joy. 

The  eye  obeys  exactly  the  action  of  the  mind. 
When  a  thought  strikes  us,  the  eyes  fix,  and  remain 
gazing  at  a  distance ;  in  enumerating  the  names  of 
persons  or  of  countries,  as  France,  Germany,  Spain, 
Turkey,  the  eyes  wink  at  each  new  name.  There 
is  no  nicety  of  learning  sought  by  the  mind  which 
the  eyes  do  not  vie  in  acquiring.  "  An  artist,"  said 
Michel  Angelo,  "  must  have  his  measuring  tools  not 
in  the  hand,  but  in  the  eye  ; "  and  there  is  no  end  to 
the  catalogue  of  its  performances,  whether  in  indolent 
vision  (that  of  health  and  beauty),  or  in  strained  vi 
sion  (that  of  art  and  labor). 

Eyes  are  bold  as  lions,  —  roving,  running,  leaping, 
here  and  there,  far  and  near.  They  speak  all  lan 
guages.  They  wait  for  no  introduction ;  they  are  no 
Englishmen ;  ask  no  leave  of  age  or  rank ;  they  re 
spect  neither  poverty  nor  riches,  neither  learning  nor 
power,  nor  virtue,  nor  sex,  but  intrude,  and  come 
again,  and  go  through  and  through  you,  in  a  moment 
of  time.  What  inundation  of  life  and  thought  is  dis 
charged  from  one  soul  into  another,  through  them  I 
The  glance  is  natural  magic.  The  mysterious  com 
munication  established  across  a  house  between  two 
entire  strangers,  moves  all  the  springs  of  wonder. 
The  communication  by  the  glance  is  in  the  greatest 
part  not  subject  to  the  control  of  the  will.  It  is  the 
bodily  symbol  of  identity  of  nature.  We  look  into 
the  eyes  to  know  if  this  other  form  is  another  self, 
and  the  eyes  will  not  lie,  but  make  a  faithful  confes- 


296  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

sion  what  inhabitant  is  there.  The  revelations  are 
sometimes  terrific.  The  confession  of  a  low,  usurping 
devil  is  there  made,  and  the  observer  shall  seem  to 
feel  the  stirring  of  owls,  and  bats,  and  horned  hoofs, 
where  he  looked  for  innocence  and  simplicity.  'T  is 
remarkable,  too,  that  the  spirit  that  appears  at  the. 
windows  of  the  house  does  at  once  invest  himself  in 
a  new  form  of  his  own,  to  the  mind  of  the  beholder. 

The  eyes  of  men  converse  as  much  as  their  tongues, 
with  the  advantage,  that  the  ocular  dialect  needs  no 
dictionary,  but  is  understood  all  the  world  over. 
When  the  eyes  say  one  thing,  and  the  tongue  another, 
a  practised  man  relies  on  the  language  of  the  first. 
If  the  man  is  off  his  centre,  the  eyes  show  it.  You 
can  read  in  the  eyes  of  your  companion,  whether 
your  argument  hits  him,  though  his  tongue  will  not 
confess  it.  There  is  a  look  by  which  a  man  shows  he 
is  going  to  say  a  good  thing,  and  a  look  when  he  has 
said  it.  Vain  and  forgotten  are  all  the  fine  offers 
and  offices  of  hospitality,  if  there  is  no  holiday  in  the 
eye.  How  many  furtive  inclinations  avowed  by  the 
eye,  though  dissembled  by  the  lips !  One  comes  away 
from  a  company,  in  which,  it  may  easily  happen,  he 
has  said  nothing,  and  no  important  remark  has  been 
addressed  to  him,  and  yet,  if  in  sympathy  with  the 
society,  he  shall  not  have  a  sense  of  this  fact,  such  a 
stream  of  life  has  been  flowing  into  him,  and  out  from 
him,  through  the  eyes.  There  are  eyes,  to  be  sure, 
that  give  no  more  admission  into  the  man  than  blue 
berries.  Others  are  liquid  and  deep,  —  wells  that  a 
man  might  fall  into  ;  —  others  are  aggressive  and  de 
vouring,  seem  to  call  out  the  police,  take  all  too  much 
notice,  and  require  crowded  Broadways,  and  the  se 
curity  of  millions,  to  protect  individuals  against  them. 


BEHAVIOR.  297 

The  military  eye  I  meet,  now  darkly  sparkling  under 
clerical,  now  under  rustic,  brows.  'Tis  the  city  of 
Lacedsemon ;  't  is  a  stack  of  bayonets.  There  are 
asking  eyes,  asserting  eyes,  prowling  eyes ;  and  eyes 
full  of  fate,  —  some  of  good,  and  some  of  sinister, 
omen.  The  alleged  power  to  charm  down  insanity,  or 
ferocity  in  beasts,  is  a  power  behind  the  eye.  It  must 
be  a  victory  achieved  in  the  will,  before  it  can  be  sig 
nified  in  the  eye.  'T  is  very  certain  that  each  man 
carries  in  his  eye  the  exact  indication  of  his  rank  in 
the  immense  scale  of  men,  and  we  are  always  learning 
to  read  it.  A  complete  man  should  need  no  auxilia 
ries  to  his  personal  presence.  Whoever  looked  on 
him  would  consent  to  his  will,  being  certified  that  his 
aims  were  generous  and  universal.  The  reason  why 
men  do  not  obey  us,  is  because  they  see  the  mud  at 
the  bottom  of  our  eye. 

If  the  organ  of  sight  is  such  a  vehicle  of  power,  the 
other  features  have  their  own.  A  man  finds  room  in 
the  few  square  inches  of  the  face  for  the  traits  of  all 
his  ancestors ;  for  the  expression  of  all  his  history, 
and  his  wants.  The  sculptor,  and  Winckelmann,  and 
Lavater,  will  tell  you  how  significant  a  feature  is  the 
nose  ;  how  its  form  expresses  strength  or  weakness 
of  will  and  good  or  bad  temper.  The  nose  of  Ju 
lius  Caesar,  of  Dante,  and  of  Pitt  suggest  "  the  ter 
rors  of  the  beak."  What  refinement,  and  what 
limitations,  the  teeth  betray !  "  Beware  you  don't 
laugh,"  said  the  wise  mother,  "  for  then  you  show  all 
your  faults." 

Balzac  left  in  manuscript  a  chapter,  which  he  called 
"  Theorie  de  la  demarche"  in  which  he  says :  " The 
look,  the  voice,  the  respiration,  and  the  attitude  or 
walk  are  identical.  But,  as  it  has  not  been  given  to 


298  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

man,  the  power  to  stand  guard,  at  once,  over  these 
four  different  simultaneous  expressions  of  his  thought, 
watch  that  one  which  speaks  out  the  truth,  and  you 
will  know  the  whole  man." 

Palaces  interest  us  mainly  in  the  exhibition  of  man 
ners,  which  in  the  idle  and  expensive  society  dwelling 
in  them  are  raised  to  a  high  art.  The  maxim  of 
courts  is  that  manner  is  power.  A  calm  and  resolute 
bearing,  a  polished  speech,  and  embellishment  of  tri 
fles,  and  the  art  of  hiding  all  uncomfortable  feeling, 
are  essential  to  the  courtier,  and  Saint  Simon,  anci. 
Cardinal  de  Retz,  and  Roederer,  and  an  encyclopaedia 
of  Memoires  will  instruct  you,  if  you  wish,  in  those 
potent  secrets.  Thus,  it  is  a  point  of  pride  with  kings 
to  remember  faces  and  names.  It  is  reported  of  one 
prince,  that  his  head  had  the  air  of  leaning  down 
wards,  in  order  not  to  humble  the  crowd.  There  are 
people  who  come  in  ever  like  a  child  with  a  piece  of 
good  news.  It  was  said  of  the  late  Lord  Holland, 
that  he  always  came  down  to  breakfast  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  had  just  met  with  some  signal  good  for 
tune.  In  Notre  Dame  the  grandee  took  his  place 
on  the  dais,  with  the  look  of  one  who  is  thinking  of 
something  else.  But  we  must  not  peep  and  eavesdrop 
at  palace^doors. 

Fine  manners  need  the  support  of  fine  manners  in 
others.  A  scholar  may  be  a  well-bred  man,  or  he  may 
not  The  enthusiast  is  introduced  to  polished  scholars 
in  society,  and  is  chilled  and  silenced  by  finding  him 
self  not  in  their  element.  They  all  have  somewhat 
which  he  has  not,  and,  it  seems,  ought  to  have.  But 
if  he  finds  the  scholar  apart  from  his  companions,  it 
is  then  the  enthusiast's  turn,  and  the  scholar  has  no 
defence,  but  must  deal  on  his  terms.  Now  they  must 


BEHA  VI OR.  299 

fight  the  battle  out  on  their  private  strength.  What 
is  the  talent  of  that  character  so  common,  —  the  suc 
cessful  man  of  the  world,  —  in  all  marts,  senates,  and 
drawing-rooms  ?  Manners :  manners  of  power  ;  sense 
to  see  his  advantage,  and  manners  up  to  it.  See  him 
approach  his  man.  He  knows  that  troops  behave  as 
they  are  handled  at  first ;  —  that  is  his  cheap  secret ; 
just  what  happens  to  every  two  persons  who  meet  on 
any  affair,  one  instantly  perceives  that  he  has  the  key 
of  the  situation,  that  his  will  comprehends  the  other's 
will,  as  the  cat  does  the  mouse,  and  he  has  only  to  use 
courtesy,  and  furnish  good-natured  reasons  to  his  vic 
tim  to  cover  up  the  chain,  lest  he  be  shamed  into  re 
sistance. 

The  theatre  in  which  this  science  of  manners  has  a 
formal  importance  is  not  with  us  a  court,  but  dress- 
circles,  wherein,  after  the  close  of  the  day's  business, 
men  and  women  meet  at  leisure,  for  mutual  entertain 
ment,  in  ornamented  drawing-rooms.  Of  course,  it 
has  every  variety  of  attraction  and  merit;  but,  to 
earnest  persons,  to  youths  or  maidens  who  have  great 
objects  at  heart,  we  cannot  extol  it  highly.  A  well- 
dressed,  talkative  company,  where  each  is  bent  to 
amuse  the  other,  —  yet  the  high-born  Turk  who  came 
hither  fancied  that  every  woman  seemed  to  be  suffer 
ing  for  a  chair  ;  that  all  talkers  were  brained  and  ex 
hausted  by  the  de-oxygenated  air  ;  it  spoiled  the  best 
persons :  it  put  all  on  stilts.  Yet  here  are  the  secret 
biographies  written  and  read.  The  aspect  of  that 
man  is  repulsive ;  I  do  not  wish  to  deal  with  him. 
The  other  is  irritable,  shy,  and  on  his  guard.  The 
youth  looks  humble  and  manly :  I  choose  him.  Look 
on  this  woman.  There  is  not  beauty,  nor  brilliant  say 
ings,  nor  distinguished  power  to  serve  you ;  but  all  see 


300  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

her  gladly ;  her  whole  air  and  impression  are  health 
ful.  Here  coine  the  sentimentalists,  and  the  invalids, 
.iere  is  Elise,  who  caught  cold  in  coming  into  the 
rorld,  and  has  always  increased  it  since.  Here  are 
,Teep-mouse  manners  ;  and  thievish  manners.  "  Look 
it  Northcote,"  said  Fuseli ;  "  he  looks  like  a  rat  that 
has  seen  a  cat."  In  the  shallow  company,  easily  ex 
cited,  easily  tired,  here  is  the  columnar  Bernard :  the 
A.lleghanies  do  not  express  more  repose  than  his  be 
havior.  Here  are  the  sweet,  following  eyes  of  Cecile : 
it  seemed  always  that  she  demanded  the  heart.  No 
thing  can  be  more  excellent  in  kind  than  the  Corin 
thian  grace  of  Gertrude's  manners,  and  yet  Blanche, 
who  has  no  manners,  has  better  manners  than  she ; 
for  the  movements  of  Blanche  are  the  sallies  of  a 
spirit  which  is  sufficient  for  the  moment,  and  she  can 
afford  to  express  every  thought  by  instant  action. 

Manners  have  been  somewhat  cynically  defined  to 
be  a  contrivance  of  wise  men  to  keep  fools  at  a  dis 
tance.  Fashion  is  shrewd  to  detect  those  who  do  not 
belong  to  her  train,  and  seldom  wastes  her  attentions. 
Society  is  very  swift  in  its  instincts,  and,  if  you  do  not 
belong  to  it,  resists  and  sneers  at  you ;  or  quietly 
drops  you.  The  first  weapon  enrages  the  party  at 
tacked  ;  the  second  is  still  more  effective,  but  is  not 
to  be  resisted,  as  the  date  of  the  transaction  is  not 
easily  found.  People  grow  up  and  grow  old  under 
this  infliction,  and  never  suspect  the  truth,  ascribing 
the  solitude  which  acts  on  them  very  injuriously  to 
any  cause  but  the  right  one. 

The  basis  of  good  manners  is  self-reliance.  Neces 
sity  is  the  law  of  all  who  are  not  self-possessed.  Those 
who  are  not  self-possessed  obtrude  and  pain  us.  Some 
men  appear  to  feel  that  they  belong  to  a  Pariah  caste. 


BEHA  VIOR.  301 

They  fear  to  offend,  they  bend  and  apologize,  and 
walk  through  life  with  a  timid  step. 

As  we  sometimes  dream  that  we  are  in  a  well- 
dressed  company  without  any  coat,  so  Godfrey  acts 
ever  as  if  he  suffered  from  some  mortifying  circum 
stance.  The  hero  should  find  himself  at  home,  wher 
ever  he  is  ;  should  impart  comfort  by  his  own  security 
and  good-nature  to  all  beholders.  The  hero  is  suffered 
to  be  himself.  A  person  of  strong  mind  comes  to  per 
ceive  that  for  him  an  immunity  is  secured  so  long  as 
he  renders  to  society  that  service  which  is  native  and 
proper  to  him,  —  an  immunity  from  all  the  observ 
ances,  yea,  and  duties,  which  society  so  tyrannically  im 
poses  on  the  rank  and  file  of  its  members.  "  Euripi 
des,"  says  Aspasia,  "  has  not  the  fine  manners  of 
Sophocles :  "  but,"  she  adds,  good-humoredly,  "  the 
movers  and  masters  of  our  souls  have  surely  a  right 
to  throw  out  their  limbs  as  carelessly  as  they  please  on 
the  world  that  belongs  to  them,  and  before  the  crea 
tures  they  have  animated."  l 

Manners  require  time,  as  nothing  is  more  vulgar 
than  haste.  Friendship  should  be  surrounded  with 
ceremonies  and  respects,  and  not  crushed  into  corners. 
Friendship  requires  more  time  than  poor  busy  men 
can  usually  command.  Here  comes  to  me  Roland, 
with  a  delicacy  of  sentiment  leading  and  inwrapping 
him  like  a  divine  cloud  or  holy  ghost.  'T  is  a  great 
destitution  to  both  that  this  should  not  be  entertained 
with  large  leisures,  but  contrariwise  should  be  balked 
by  importunate  affairs. 

But  through  this  lustrousf  varnish,  the  reality  is  evei 
shining.     'T  is  hard  to  ke,  p  the  what  from  breaking 
through  this  pretty  painting  of  the  how.     The  core 
1  LauJor,  Pericles  and  Aspasia. 


302  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

will  come  to  the  surface.  Strong  will  and  keen  per 
ception  overpower  old  manners,  and  create  new ;  and 
the  thought  of  the  present  moment  has  a  greater  value 
than  all  the  past.  In  persons  of  character  we  do  not 
remark  manners,  because  of  their  instantaneousness. 
We  are  surprised  by  the  thing  done,  out  of  all  power 
to  watch  the  way  of  it.  Yet  nothing  is  more  charming 
than  to  recognize  the  great  style  which  runs  through 
the  action  of  such.  People  masquerade  before  us  in 
their  fortunes,  titles,  offices,  and  connections,  as  aca 
demic  or  civil  presidents,  or  senators,  or  professors,  or 
great  lawyers,  and  impose  on  the  frivolous,  and  a  good 
deal  on  each  other,  by  these  fames.  At  least,  it  is  a 
point  of  prudent  good  manners  to  treat  these  reputa 
tions  tenderly,  as  if  they  were  merited.  But  the  sad 
realist  knows  these  fellows  at  a  glance,  and  they  know 
him ;  as  when  in  Paris  the  chief  of  the  police  enters  a 
ball-room,  so  many  diamonded  pretenders  shrink  and 
make  themselves  as  inconspicuous  as  they  can,  or  give 
him  a  supplicating  look  as  they  pass.  "  I  had  re 
ceived,"  said  a  sibyl,  —  "I  had  received  at  birth  the 
fatal  gift  of  penetration ;  "  and  these  Cassandras  are 
always  born. 

Manners  impress  as  they  indicate  real  power.  A 
man  who  is  sure  of  his  point  carries  a  broad  and  con 
tented  expression,  which  everybody  reads.  And  you 
cannot  rightly  train  one  to  an  air  and  manner  except 
by  making  him  the  kind  of  man  of  whom  that  manner 
is  the  natural  expression.  Nature  forever  puts  a  pre 
mium  on  reality.  What  is  done  for  effect  is  seen  to 
be  done  for  effect ;  what  ^  done  for  love  is  felt  to  be 
done  for  love.  A  man  i  oires  affection  and  honor, 
because  he  was  not  Iyin0  in  wait  for  these.  The 
things  of  a  man  for  which  we  visit  him,  were  done  in 


BEHAVIOR.  303 

the  dark  and  the  cold.  A  little  integrity  is  better 
than  any  career.  So  deep  are  the  sources  of  this  sur 
face-action,  that  even  the  size  of  your  companion  seems 
to  vary  with  his  freedom  of  thought.  Not  only  is  he 
larger,  when  at  ease,  and  his  thoughts  generous,  but 
everything  around  him  becomes  variable  with  expres 
sion.  No  carpenter's  rule,  no  rod  and  chain,  will 
measure  the  dimensions  of  any  house  or  house-lot :  go 
into  the  house :  if  the  proprietor  is  constrained  and 
deferring,  't  is  of  no  importance  how  large  his  house, 
how  beautiful  his  grounds,  —  you  quickly  come  to  the 
end  of  all ;  but  if  the  man  is  self-possessed,  happy,  and 
at  home,  his  house  is  deep-founded,  indefinitely  large 
and  interesting,  the  roof  and  dome  buoyant  as  the  sky. 
Under  the  humblest  roof,  the  commonest  person  in 
plain  clothes  sits  there  massive,  cheerful,  yet  formi 
dable  like  the  Egyptian  colossi. 

Neither  Aristotle,  nor  Leibnitz,  nor  Junius,  nor 
Champollion  has  set  down  the  grammar-rules  of  this 
dialect,  older  than  Sanscrit ;  but  they  who  cannot  yet 
read  English,  can  read  this.  Men  take  each  other's 
measure,  when  they  meet  for  the  first  time,  —  and 
every  time  they  meet.  How  do  they  get  this  rapid 
knowledge,  even  before  they  speak,  of  each  other's 
power  and  dispositions  ?  One  would  say  that  the  per 
suasion  of  their  speech  is  not  in  what  they  say,  —  or, 
that  men  do  not  convince  by  their  argument,  —  but  by 
their  personality,  by  who  they  are,  and  what  they  said 
and  did  heretofore.  A  man  already  strong  is  listened 
to,  and  everything  he  says  is  applauded.  Another 
opposes  him  with  sound  argument,  but  the  argument 
is  scouted,  until  by  and  by  it  gets  into  the  mind  of 
some  weighty  person;  then  it  begins  to  tell  on  the 
community. 


304  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Self-reliance  is  the  basis  of  behavior,  as  it  is  the 
guaranty  that  the  powers  are  not  squandered  in  ton 
much  demonstration.  In  this  country,  where  schoo< 
education  is  universal,  we  have  a  superficial  culture, 
and  a  profusion  of  reading  and  writing  and  expres 
sion.  We  parade  our  nobilities  in  poems  and  ora 
tions,  instead  of  working  them  up  into  happiness. 
There  is  a  whisper  out  of  the  ages  to  him  who  can 
understand  it,  — "  Whatever  is  known  to  thyself 
alone  has  always  very  great  value."  There  is  some 
reason  to  believe  that,  when  a  man  does  not  write  his 
poetry,  it  escapes  by  other  vents  through  him,  instead 
of  the  one  vent  of  writing;  clings  to  his  form  and 
manners,  whilst  poets  have  often  nothing  poetical 
about  them  except  their  verses.  Jacobi  said,  that 
"  when  a  man  has  fully  expressed  his  thought,  he  has 
somewhat  less  possession  of  it."  One  would  say,  the 
rule  is,  —  What  a  man  is  irresistibly  urged  to  say, 
helps  him  and  us.  In  explaining  his  thought  to  others, 
he  explains  it  to  himself :  but  when  he  opens  it  for 
show,  it  corrupts  him. 

Society  is  the  stage  on  which  manners  are  shown  ; 
novels  are  their  literature.  Novels  are  the  journal  or 
record  of  manners ;  and  the  new  importance  of  these 
books  derives  from  the  fact  that  the  novelist  begins  to 
penetrate  the  surface,  and  treat  this  part  of  life  more 
worthily.  The  novels  used  to  be  all  alike,  and  had 
a  quite  vulgar  tone.  The  novels  used  to  lead  us  on  to 
a  foolish  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  the  boy  and  girl 
they  described.  The  boy  was  to  be  raised  from  a 
humble  to  a  high  position.  He  was  in  want  of  a  wife 
and  a  castle,  and  the  object  of  the  story  was  to  supply 
him  with  one  or  both.  We  watched  sympathetically, 
step  by  step,  his  climbing,  until,  at  last,  the  point  is 


BEHA  VIOR.  305 

gained,  the  wedding  day  is  fixed,  and  we  follow  the 
gala  procession  home  to  the  bannered  portal,  when  the 
doors  are  slammed  in  our  face,  and  the  poor  reader  is 
left  outside  in  the  cold,  not  enriched  by  so  much  as  an 
idea,  or  a  virtuous  impulse. 

But  the  victories  of  character  are  instant,  and  vic 
tories  for  all.  Its  greatness  enlarges  all.  We  are 
fortified  by  every  heroic  anecdote.  The  novels  are  as 
useful  as  Bibles,  if  they  teach  you  the  secret,  that  the 
best  of  life  is  conversation,  and  the  greatest  success  is 
confidence,  or  perfect  understanding  between  sincere 
people.  'T  is  a  French  definition  of  friendship,  rien 
que  s'entendre,  good  understanding.  The  highest 
compact  we  can  make  with  our  fellow  is,  —  "  Let  there 
be  truth  between  us  two  for  evermore."  That  is  the 
charm  in  all  good  novels,  as  it  is  the  charm  in  all  good 
histories,  that  the  heroes  mutually  understand,  from 
the  first,  and  deal  loyally  and  with  a  profound  trust  in 
each  other.  It  is  sublime  to  feel  and  say  of  another, 
I  need  never  meet,  or  speak,  or  write  to  him :  we  need 
not  reinforce  ourselves,  or  send  tokens  of  remem 
brance  :  I  rely  on  him  as  on  myself :  if  he  did  thus,  or 
thus,  I  know  it  was  right. 

In  all  the  superior  people  I  have  met,  I  notice  di 
rectness,  truth  spoken  more  truly,  as  if  everything  of 
obstruction,  of  malformation,  had  been  trained  away. 
What  have  they  to  conceal  ?  What  have  they  to  ex 
hibit  ?  Between  simple  and  noble  persons  there  is  al 
ways  a  quick  intelligence :  they  recognize  at  sight,  and 
meet  on  a  better  ground  than  the  talents  and  skills 
they  may  chance  to  possess,  namely,  on  sincerity  and 
uprightness.  For,  it  is  not  what  talents  or  genius 
a  man  has,  but  how  he  is  to  his  talents,  that  consti 
tutes  friendship  and  character.  The  man  that  stands 


306  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

by  himself,  the  universe  stands  by  him  also.  It  is  re 
lated  of  the  monk  Basle,  that,  being  excommunicated 
by  the  Pope,  he  was,  at  his  death,  sent  in  charge  of  an 
angel  to  find  a  fit  place  of  suffering  in  hell ;  but,  such 
was  the  eloquence  and  good-humor  of  the  monk,  that 
wherever  he  went  he  was  received  gladly,  and  civilly 
treated,  even  by  the  most  uncivil  angels :  and,  when 
he  came  to  discourse  with  them,  instead  of  contradict 
ing  or  forcing  him,  they  took  his  part,  and  adopted 
his  manners ;  and  even  good  angels  came  from  far,  to 
see  him,  and  take  up  their  abode  with  him.  The  an 
gel  that  was  sent  to  find  a  place  of  torment  for  him 
attempted  to  remove  him  to  a  worse  pit,  but  with  no 
better  success  ;  for  such  was  the  contented  spirit  of  the 
monk,  that  he  found  something  to  praise  in  every 
place  and  company,  though  in  hell,  and  made  a  kind 
of  heaven  of  it.  At  last  the  escorting  angel  returned 
with  his  prisoner  to  them  that  sent  him,  saying  that 
no  phlegethon  could  be  found  that  would  burn  him ; 
for  that  in  whatever  condition,  Basle  remained  incor 
rigibly  Basle.  The  legend  says,  his  sentence  was  re 
mitted,  and  he  was  allowed  to  go  into  heaven,  and 
was  canonized  as  a  saint. 

There  is  a  stroke  of  magnanimity  in  the  correspon 
dence  of  Bonaparte  with  his  brother  Joseph,  when  the 
latter  was  King  of  Spain,  and  complained  that  he 
missed  in  Napoleon's  letters  the  affectionate  tone 
which  had  marked  their  childish  correspondence.  "  I 
am  sorry,"  replies  Napoleon,  "you  think  you  shall 
find  your  brother  again  only  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 
It  is  natural,  that  at  forty,  he  should  not  feel  towards 
you  as  he  did  at  twelve.  But  his  feelings  towards  you 
have  greater  truth  and  strength.  His  friendship  has 
the  features  of  his  mind." 


BEHA  VIOR. 

How  much  we  forgive  in  those  who  yield  us  the 
rare  spectacle  of  heroic  manners !  We  will  pardon 
them  the  want  of  books,  of  arts,  and  even  of  the  gen 
tler  virtues.  How  tenaciously  we  remember  them  I 
Here  is  a  lesson  which  I  brought  along  with  me  in 
boyhood  from  the  Latin  School,  and  which  ranks  with 
the  best  of  Roman  anecdotes.  Marcus  Scaurus  was 
accused  by  Quintus  Varius  Hispanus,  that  he  had  ex 
cited  the  allies  to  take  arms  against  the  Republic. 
But  he,  full  of  firmness  and  gravity,  defended  himself 
in  this  manner  :  "  Quintus  Varius  Hispanus  alleges 
that  Marcus  Scaurus,  President  of  the  Senate,  excited 
the  allies  to  arms :  Marcus  Scaurus,  President  of  the 
Senate,  denies  it.  There  is  no  witness.  Which  do 
you  believe,  Romans  ?  "  "  Utri  creditis,  Quirites  ?  " 
When  he  had  said  these  words,  he  was  absolved  by 
the  assembly  of  the  people. 

I  have  seen  manners  that  make  a  similar  impression 
with  personal  beauty ;  that  give  the  like  exhilaration, 
and  refine  us  like  that;  and,  in  memorable  experi 
ences,  they  are  suddenly  better  than  beauty,  and  make 
that  superfluous  and  ugly.  But  they  must  be  marked 
by  fine  perception,  the  acquaintance  with  real  beauty. 
They  must  always  show  self-control :  you  shall  not  be 
facile,  apologetic,  or  leaky,  but  king  over  your  word ; 
and  every  gesture  and  action  shall  indicate  power  at 
rest.  Then  they  must  be  inspired  by  the  good  heart. 
There  is  no  beautifier  of  complexion,  or  form,  or  be 
havior,  like  the  wish  to  scatter  joy  and  not  pain 
around  us.  'T  is  good  to  give  a  stranger  a  meal,  or  a 
night's  lodging.  'T  is  better  to  be  hospitable  to  his 
good  meaning  and  thought,  and  give  courage  to  a 
companion.  We  must  be  as  courteous  to  a  man  as 
we  are  to  a  picture,  which  we  are  willing  to  give  the 


808  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

advantage  of  a  good  light.  Special  precepts  are  not 
to  be  thought  of:  the  talent  of  well-doing  contains 
them  all.  Every  hour  will  show  a  duty  as  paramount 
as  that  of  my  whim  just  now ;  and  yet  I  will  write  it, 
—  that  there  is  one  topic  peremptorily  forbidden  to 
all  well-bred,  to  all  rational  mortals,  namely,  their 
distempers.  If  you  have  not  slept,  or  if  you  have 
slept,  or  if  you  have  headache,  or  sciatica,  or  leprosy, 
or  thunder-stroke,  I  beseech  you,  by  all  angels,  to  hold 
your  peace,  and  not  pollute  the  morning,  to  which  all 
the  housemates  bring  serene  and  pleasant  thoughts,  by 
corruption  and  groans.  Come  out  of  the  azure. 
Love  the  day.  Do  not  leave  the  sky  out  of  your  land 
scape.  The  oldest  and  the  most  deserving  person 
should  come  very  modestly  into  any  newly  awaked 
company,  respecting  the  divine  communications,  out  of 
which  all  must  be  presumed  to  have  newly  come.  An 
old  man,  who  added  an  elevating  culture  to  a  large 
experience  of  life,  said  to  me :  "  When  you  come  into 
the  room,  I  think  I  will  study  how  to  make  humanity 
beautiful  to  you." 

As  respects  the  delicate  question  of  culture,  I  do 
not  think  that  any  other  than  negative  rules  can  be 
laid  down.  For  positive  rules,  for  suggestion,  Nature 
alone  inspires  it.  Who  dare  assume  to  guide  a  youth, 
a  maid,  to  perfect  manners  ?  —  the  golden  mean  is  so 
delicate,  difficult,  —  say  frankly,  unattainable.  What 
finest  hands  would  not  be  clumsy  to  sketch  the  genial 
precepts  of  the  young  girl's  demeanor  ?  The  chances 
seem  infinite  against  success ;  and  yet  success  is  con 
tinually  attained.  There  must  not  be  secondarines^ 
and  't  is  a  thousand  to  one  that  her  air  and  manner 
will  at  once  betray  that  she  is  not  primary,  but  that 
there  is  some  other  one  or  many  of  her  class,  to  whom 


BOSTON  HYMN.  309 

she  habitually  postpones  herself.  But  Nature  lifts 
her  easily,  and  without  knowing  it,  over  these  impos 
sibilities,  and  we  are  continually  surprised  with  graces 
and  felicities  not  only  unteachable,  but  undescribable. 


BOSTON  HYMN. 

BEAD   IN   MUSIC   HALL,   JANUARY    1,    1863. 

THE  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 
As  they  sat  by  the  seaside, 
And  filled  their  hearts  with  flame. 

God  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings,  I 

I  suffer  them  no  more  ; 

Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 

The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 
A  field  of  havoc  and  war,  w 

Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 
Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor? 

My  angel,  —  his  name  is  Freedom,  — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king ; 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west  M 

And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

Lo !  I  uncover  the  land 

Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 

As  the  sculptor  uncovers  the  statue 

When  he  has  wrought  his  best ;  M 


310  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  in  the  seas 
And  soar  to  the  air-borne  flocks 
Of  clouds  and  the  boreal  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods  ; 
Call  in  the  wretch  and  slave : 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 
And  none  but  Toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble, 
No  lineage  counted  great ; 
Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 
Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest 
And  trim  the  straightest  boughs ; 
Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together, 
The  young  men  and  the  sires, 
The  digger  in  the  harvest  field, 
Hireling  and  him  that  hires  ; 

And  here  in  a  pine  state-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 
In  every  needful  faculty, 
In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now !  if  these  poor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea 
And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun, 
As  planets  faithful  be. 


BOSTON  HYMN.  311 

And  ye  shall  succor  men  ; 
'T  is  nobleness  to  serve ;  «• 

Help  them  who  cannot  help  again : 
Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 

I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 
And  I  unchain  the  slave : 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth         N 
As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 

His  proper  good  to  flow : 

As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 

So  much  he  shall  bestow.  «• 

But,  laying  hands  on  another 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 
He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

To-day  unbind  the  captive,  • 

So  only  are  ye  unbound ; 

Lift  up  a  people  from  the  dust, 

Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound  1 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner 
And  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim.  » 

Who  is  the  owner  ?     The  slave  is  owner, 
And  ever  was.     Pay  him. 

O  North  I  give  him  beauty  for  rags, 
And  honor,  O  South !  for  his  shame ; 
Nevada !  coin  thy  golden  crags  n 

With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 


312  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Up !  and  the  dusky  race 
That  sat  in  darkness  long,  — 
Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 
And  as  behemoth  strong. 

Come,  East  and  West  and  North, 
By  races,  as  snow-flakes, 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth, 
Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulfilled  shall  be, 
For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 
His  way  home  to  the  mark. 


DANIEL  WEBSTER. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

"  IN  the  last  year  of  the  Revolutionary  "War,  on  the  18th 
of  January,  1782,  Daniel  Webster  was  born,  in  the  home 
which  his  father  had  established  on  the  outskirts  of  civiliza 
tion.1  If  the  character  and  situation  of  the  place,  and  the 
circumstances  under  which  he  passed  the  first  years  of  his 
life,  might  seem  adverse  to  the  early  cultivation  of  his  ex 
traordinary  talent,  it  still  cannot  be  doubted  that  they  pos 
sessed  influences  favorable  to  elevation  and  strength  of  char 
acter.  The  hardships  of  an  infant  settlement  and  border 
life,  the  traditions  of  a  long  series  of  Indian  wars,  and  of 
two  mighty  national  contests,  in  which  an  honored  parent 
had  borne  his  part,  the  anecdotes  of  Fort  William  Henry, 
of  Quebec,  of  Bennington,  of  West  Point,  of  Wolfe  and 
Stark  and  Washington,  the  great  Iliad  and  Odyssey  of 
American  Independence,  —  this  was  the  fireside  entertain 
ment  of  the  long  winter  evenings  of  the  secluded  village 
home.  .  .  . 

"  Something  that  was  called  a  school  was  kept  for  two  or 
three  months  in  the  winter,  frequently  by  an  itinerant,  too 
often  a  pretender,  claiming  only  to  teach  a  little  reading, 
writing,  and  ciphering,  and  wholly  incompetent  to  give  any 
valuable  assistance  to  a  clever  youth  in  learning  either. 

"  Such  as  the  village  school  was,  Mr.  Webster  enjoyed  its 
advantages,  if  they  could  be  called  by  that  name.  It  was, 
1  Salisbury  (now  Franklin),  N.  H. 


814  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

however,  of  a  migratory  character.  When  it  was  near  his 
father's  residence  it  was  easy  to  attend ;  but  it  was  some 
times  in  a  distant  part  of  the  town,  and  sometimes  in  another 
town.  .  .  .  Poor  as  these  opportunities  of  education  were, 
they  were  bestowed  on  Mr.  Webster  more  liberally  than  on 
his  brothers.  He  showed  a  greater  eagerness  for  learning ; 
and  he  was  thought  of  too  frail  a  constitution  for  any  robust 
pursuit.  ...  It  is  probable  that  the  best  part  of  his  educa 
tion  was  derived  from  the  judicious  and  experienced  father, 
and  the  strong-minded,  affectionate,  and  ambitious  mo 
ther."  1 

His  attitude  toward  books  is  well  shown  by  the  following 
extract  from  his  Autobiography:  "I  remember  that  my 
father  brought  home  from  some  of  the  lower  towns  Pope's 
Essay  on  Man,  published  in  a  sort  of  pamphlet.  I  took  it, 
and  very  soon  could  repeat  it  from  beginning  to  end.  We 
had  so  few  books,  that  to  read  them  once  or  twice  was  no 
thing.  We  thought  they  were  all  to  be  got  by  heart." 

In  1796  Webster  went  to  Exeter  Academy,  but  poverty 
at  home  caused  his  withdrawal  in  February,  1797.  He  then 
studied  in  the  neighboring  town  of  Boscawen,  under  the 
Rev.  Samuel  Wood,  whose  entire  charge  for  board  and  in 
struction  was  $1.00  a  week.  In  1797  he  entered  Dart 
mouth  College,  where  he  was  graduated  in  1801,  after  four 
years  of  hard  and  telling  work  ;  his  winter  vacations  were 
spent  in  teaching  school. 

Webster  next  studied  law,  but  the  need  of  money  by  him 
self  and  his  brother  Ezekiel  compelled  him  to  accept  an 
offer  to  take  charge  of  an  academy  at  Fryeburg,  Maine,  at 
a  salary  of  about  a  dollar  a  day  ;  he  supported  himself  by 
copying  deeds,  and  thus  was  able  to  save  all  his  salary  as  a 
fund  for  the  further  education  of  himself  and  his  brother. 

1  See  Biographical  Memoir,  by  Edward  Everett.  From  thia 
Memoir,  and  from  Lodge's  Life  of  Webster,  in  the  American 
Statesmen  Series,  most  of  the  material  of  thia  sketch  has  been 
taken. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  815 

He  resumed  the  study  of  law  in  September,  1802,  and  in 
the  spring  of  1805  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  Boston.  He 
opened  an  office  at  Boscawen,  N.  H.,  but  in  September, 
1807,  moved  to  Portsmouth,  where  he  at  once  rose  to  the 
head  of  his  profession,  and  for  nine  successive  years  had  a 
large  though  not  very  lucrative  practice. 

In  1808  he  was  married  to  Miss  Grace  Fletcher  of  Hop- 
kinton,  N.  H. 

In  November,  1812,  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
National  House  of  Representatives,  where  his  great  talents 
were  at  once  recognized  ;  he  was  reflected  in  1814.  From 
1823  until  his  death  in  1852,  with  the  exception  of  about 
two  years,  he  was  constantly  in  public  life,  as  congressman, 
senator,  and  secretary  of  state. 

In  1816  he  moved  to  Boston,  and  soon  took  a  command 
ing  position  in  his  profession  of  the  law.  He  had  a  choice 
of  the  best  business  of  the  whole  country.  He  distin 
guished  himself  especially  in  the  realm  of  Constitutional 
Law,  by  which  the  rights  of  States  and  individuals  under 
the  Constitution  were  defined.  In  1818  he  argued  the 
famous  Dartmouth  College  case,  and  secured  a  decision 
declaring  unconstitutional,  on  the  ground  of  impairing  the 
obligation  of  a  contract,  an  act  of  the  New  Hampshire 
Legislature  altering  the  charter  of  the  college.  He  was 
thereafter  retained  in  almost  every  important  case  argued 
before  the  Supreme  Court  at  Washington. 

On  December  22,  1820,  the  two  hundredth  anniversary 
of  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  he  delivered  his  famous 
Plymouth  Oration,  the  first  of  a  series  of  noble,  patriotic 
addresses  which  showed  him  to  be  the  greatest  orator  Amer 
ica  ever  produced.  On  June  17, 1825,  he  delivered  an  or» 
tion  at  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill 
Monument,  and  on  August  2,  1826,  his  eulogy  on  the  Ex- 
Presidents  John  Adams  and  Thomas  Jefferson,  who  died 
within  a  few  hours  of  each  other,  on  July  4,  1826,  the  fif 
tieth  anniversary  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  In 


316  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

1830,  he  made,  in  the  United  States  Senate,  his  celebrated 
Reply  to  Hayne,  in  which  he  repelled  insinuations  against 
New  England,  and  argued  against  the  right  of  nullification. 

In  1850  he  delivered  in  the  Senate  Chamber,  at  Wash- 
pgton,  what  is  known  as  his  Seventh  of  March  Speech. 
flenry  Cabot  Lodge  says,  in  his  Life  of  Webster,  that  at  this 
time  Webster's  place  was  at  the  head  of  a  new  party  based 
on  the  principles  which  he  had  himself  formulated  against  the 
extension  of  slavery ;  that  he  did  not  change  his  party,  and 
therefore  had  to  change  his  opinions.  In  the  Seventh  of 
March  Speech,  he  spoke  in  favor  of  enforcing  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Law,  and  against  the  Wilmot  Proviso,  by  which 
slavery  was  to  be  excluded  from  all  territory  thereafter  ac 
quired.  He  depicted  at  length  the  grievances  of  the  South, 
and  said  but  little  about  those  of  the  North.  Mr.  George 
T.  Curtis,  in  his  Biography,  says  that  a  great  majority  of 
Webster's  constituents,  if  not  of  the  whole  North,  disap 
proved  of  this  speech.  The  judgment  of  many  was 
summed  up  in  Whittier's  great  poem,  Ichabod.  In  con 
nection  with  this  should  be  read  the  same  poet's  verses, 
The  Lost  Occasion.  Both  of  these  poems  refer  to  Web 
ster. 

Webster  as  an  orator  had  no  equal,  and  as  a  lawyer  no 
superior.  His  reputation  as  a  statesman,  though  for  the 
most  part  grand  and  glorious,  was,  in  the  eyes  of  many, 
dimmed  by  his  change  of  base  on  the  slavery  question.  His 
personal  appearance  was  very  remarkable  ;  he  had  a  swarthy 
complexion  and  straight  black  hair ;  his  head  was  large  and 
of  noble  shape,  with  a  broad  and  lofty  brow ;  his  features 
were  finely  cut  and  full  of  massive  strength,  and  his  eyes 
were  dark  and  deep  set.  Mr.  Lodge  says,  "  There  is  no 
man  in  all  history  who  came  into  the  world  so  equipped 
physically  for  speech." 

Webster  died  at  Marshfield,  Mass.,  October  24,  1852, 
ffhile  holding  the  office  of  secretary  of  state  under  Presi 
dent  Filltuore. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT. 

AJf  ADDRESS   DELIVERED  AT   THE   LATINO   OF  THE   CORNER 
STONE   OF  THE   BUNKER    HELL   MONUMENT    AT   CHARLES- 
TOWN,   MASS.,   ON  THE   17TH  OF  JUNE,   1825. 

[As  early  as  1776,  some  steps  were  taken  toward  the  com 
memoration  of  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill  and  the  fall  of 
General  Warren,  who  was  buried  upon  the  hill  the  day  after 
the  action.  The  Massachusetts  Lodge  of  Masons,  over 
which  Warren  had  presided,  applied  to  the  provisional  gov 
ernment  of  Massachusetts  for  permission  to  take  up  his  re 
mains  and  to  bury  them  with  the  usual  solemnities.  The 
council  granted  this  request,  on  condition  that  it  should  be 
carried  into  effect  in  such  a  manner  that  the  government  of 
the  Colony  might  have  an  opportunity  to  erect  a  monument 
to  his  memory.  A  funeral  procession  was  had,  and  a  eulogy 
on  General  Warren  was  delivered  by  Perez  Morton,  but  no 
measures  were  taken  toward  building  a  monument. 

A  resolution  was  adopted  by  the  Congress  of  the  United 
States  on  the  8th  of  April,  1777,  directing  that  monuments 
should  be  erected  to  the  memory  of  General  Warren,  in 
Boston,  and  of  General  Mercer,  at  Fredericksburg ;  but  this 
resolution  has  remained  to  the  present  time  unexecuted. 

On  the  llth  of  November,  1794,  a  committee  was  ap 
pointed  by  King  Solomon's  Lodge,  at  Charlestown,1  to  take 
measures  for  the  erection  of  a  monument  to  the  memory  of! 
General  Joseph  Warren,  at  the  expense  of  the  lodge.  Thi? 
resolution  was  promptly  carried  into  effect.  The  land  fox 

1  General  Warren,  at  the  time  of  his  decease,  was  Grand 
Master  of  the  Masonic  Lodges  in  America. 


318  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

this  purpose  was  presented  to  the  lodge  by  the  Hon.  James 
Russell,  of  Charlestown,  and  it  was  dedicated  with  appro 
priate  ceremonies  on  the  2d  of  December,  1794.  It  was  a 
wooden  pillar  of  the  Tuscan  order,  eighteen  feet  in  height, 
raised  on  a  pedestal  eight  feet  square,  and  of  an  elevation 
of  ten  feet  from  the  ground.  The  pillar  was  surmounted 
by  a  gilt  urn.  An  appropriate  inscription  was  placed  on  the 
south  side  of  the  pedestal. 

In  February,  1818,  a  committee  of  the  legislature  of 
Massachusetts  was  appointed  to  consider  the  expediency  of 
building  a  monument  of  American  marble  to  the  memory 
of  General  Warren,  but  this  proposal  was  not  carried  into 
effect 

As  the  half-century  from  the  date  of  the  battle  drew  to 
ward  a  close,  a  stronger  feeling  of  the  duty  of  commemo 
rating  it  began  to  be  awakened  in  the  community.  Among 
those  who  from  the  first  manifested  the  greatest  interest  in 
the  subject  was  the  late  William  Tudor,  Esq.  He  expressed 
the  wish,  in  a  letter  still  preserved,  to  see  upon  the  battle 
ground  "  the  noblest  monument  in  the  world,"  and  he  was 
so  ardent  and  persevering  in  urging  the  project,  that  it  has 
been  stated  that  he  first  conceived  the  idea  of  it.  The  steps 
taken  in  execution  of  the  project,  from  the  earliest  private 
conferences  among  the  gentlemen  first  engaged  in  it  to  its 
final  completion,  are  accurately  sketched  by  Mr.  Richard 
Frothingham,  Jr.,  in  his  valuable  History  of  the  Siege  of 
Boston.  All  the  material  facts  contained  in  this  note  are 
derived  from  his  chapter  on  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument. 
After  giving  an  account  of  the  organization  of  the  society, 
the  measures  adopted  for  the  collection  of  funds,  and  the 
deliberations  on  the  form  of  the  monument,  Mr.  Frothing 
ham  proceeds  as  follows  :  — 

"  It  was  at  this  stage  of  the  enterprise  that  the  directors 
proposed  to  lay  the  corner-stone  of  the  monument,  and 
ground  was  broken  (June  7th)  for  this  purpose.  As  a 
mark  of  respect  to  the  liberality  and  patriotism  of  King 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         319 

Solomon's  Lodge,  they  invited  the  Grand  Master  of  the 
Grand  Lodge  of  Massachusetts  to  perform  the  ceremony. 
They  also  invited  General  Lafayette  to  accompany  the 
President  of  the  Association,  Hon.  Daniel  Webster,  and 
assist  in  it. 

"This  celebration  was  unequalled  in  magnificence  by 
anything  of  the  kind  that  had  been  seen  in  New  England. 
The  morning  proved  propitious.  The  air  was  cool,  the  sky 
was  clear,  and  timely  showers  the  previous  day  had  bright 
ened  the  vesture  of  nature  into  its  loveliest  hue.  Delighted 
thousands  flocked  into  Boston  to  bear  a  part  in  the  proceed 
ings,  or  to  witness  the  spectacle.  At  about  ten  o'clock  a 
procession  moved  from  the  State  House  towards  Bunker 
Hill.  The  military,  in  their  fine  uniforms,  formed  the  van. 
About  two  hundred  veterans  of  the  Revolution,  of  whom 
forty  were  survivors  of  the  battle,  rode  in  barouches  next 
to  the  escort.  These  venerable  men,  the  relics  of  a  past 
generation,  with  emaciated  frames,  tottering  limbs,  and 
trembling  voices,  Constituted  a  touching  spectacle.  Some 
wore,  as  honorable  decorations,  their  old  fighting  equip 
ments,  and  some  bore  the  scars  of  still  more  honorable 
wounds.  Glistening  eyes  constituted  their  answer  to  the  en 
thusiastic  cheers  of  the  grateful  multitudes  who  lined  their 
pathway  and  cheered  their  progress.  To  this  patriot  band 
succeeded  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument  Association.  Then 
the  Masonic  fraternity,  in  their  splendid  regalia,  thousands 
in  number.  Then  Lafayette,  continually  welcomed  by  tokens 
of  love  and  gratitude,  and  the  invited  guests.  Then  a  long 
array  of  societies,  with  their  various  badges  and  banners. 
It  was  a  splendid  procession,  and  of  such  length  that  the 
front  nearly  reached  Charlestown  Bridge  ere  the  rear  had 
left  Boston  Common.  It  proceeded  to  Breed's  Hill,  where 
the  Grand  Master  of  the  Freemasons,  the  President  of  the 
Monument  Association,  and  General  Lafayette  performed 
the  ceremony  of  laying  the  corner-stone,  in  the  presence  of 
a  vast  concourse  of  people." 


320  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

The  procession  then  moved  to  a  spacious  amphitheatre 
on  the  northern  declivity  of  the  hill,  where  the  following 
address  was  delivered  by  Mr.  Webster,  in  the  presence  of 
as  great  a  multitude  perhaps  as  was  ever  assembled  within 
the  sound  of  a  human  voice.] 

THIS  uncounted  multitude  before  me  and  around 
me  proves  the  feeling  which  the  occasion  has  excited. 
These  thousands  of  human  faces,  glowing  with  sym 
pathy  and  joy,  and  from  the  impulses  of  a  common 
gratitude  turned  reverently  to  heaven  in  this  spacious 
temple  of  the  firmament,  proclaim  that  the  day,  the 
place,  and  the  purpose  of  our  assembling  have  made 
a  deep  impression  on  our  hearts. 

If,  indeed,  there  be  anything  in  local  association  fit 
to  affect  the  mind  of  man,  we  need  not  strive  to  re 
press  the  emotions  which  agitate  us  here.  We  are 
among  the  sepulchres  of  our  fathers.  We  are  on 
ground  distinguished  by  their  valor,  their  constancy, 
and  the  shedding  of  their  blood.  We  are  here,  not 
to  fix  an  uncertain  date  in  our  annals,  nor  to  draw 
into  notice  an  obscure  and  unknown  spot.  If  our 
humble  purpose  had  never  been  conceived,  if  we  our 
selves  had  never  been  born,  the  17th  of  June,  1775, 
would  have  been  a  day  on  which  all  subsequent  his 
tory  would  have  poured  its  light,  and  the  eminence 
where  we  stand  a  point  of  attraction  to  the  eyes  of 
successive  generations.  But  we  are  Americans.  We 
live  in  what  may  be  called  the  early  age  of  this  great 
continent ;  and  we  know  that  our  posterity,  through 
all  time,  are  here  to  enjoy  and  suffer  the  allotments 
of  humanity.  We  see  before  us  a  probable  train  of 
great  events ;  we  know  that  our  own  fortunes  have 
been  happily  cast ;  and  it  is  natural,  therefore,  that 


THE    BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.        321 

we  should  be  moved  by  the  contemplation  of  occur 
rences  which  have  guided  our  destiny  before  many  of 
us  were  born,  and  settled  the  condition  in  which  we 
should  pass  that  portion  of  our  existence  which  God 
allows  to  men  on  earth. 

We  do  not  read  even  of  the  discovery  of  this  con 
tinent,  without  feeling  something  of  a  personal  inter 
est  in  the  event ;  without  being  reminded  how  much 
it  has  affected  our  own  fortunes  and  our  own  exist 
ence.  It  would  be  still  more  unnatural  for  us,  there 
fore,  than  for  others,  to  contemplate  with  unaffected 
minds  that  interesting,  I  may  say  that  most  touch 
ing  and  pathetic  scene,  when  the  great  discoverer  of 
America  stood  on  the  deck  of  his  shattered  bark,  the 
shades  of  night  falling  on  the  sea,  yet  no  man  sleep 
ing  ;  tossed  on  the  billows  of  an  unknown  ocean,  yet 
the  stronger  billows  of  alternate  hope  and  despair 
tossing  his  own  troubled  thoughts ;  extending  forward 
his  harassed  frame,  straining  westward  his  anxious 
and  eager  eyes,  till  Heaven  at  last  granted  him  a  mo 
ment  of  rapture  and  ecstasy,  in  blessing  his  vision 
with  the  sight  of  the  unknown  world. 

Nearer  to  our  times,  more  closely  connected  with 
our  fates,  and  therefore  still  more  interesting  to  our 
feelings  and  affections,  is  the  settlement  of  our  own 
country  by  colonists  from  England.  We  cherish  every 
memorial  of  these  worthy  ancestors ;  we  celebrate  their 
patience  and  fortitude ;  we  admire  their  daring  enter 
prise  ;  we  teach  our  children  to  venerate  their  piety ; 
and  we  are  justly  proud  of  being  descended  from 
men  who  have  set  the  world  an  example  of  founding 
civil  institutions  on  the  great  and  united  principles  of 
human  freedom  and  human  knowledge.  To  us,  their 
children,  the  story  of  their  labors  and  sufferings  can 


DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

never  be  without  interest.  We  shall  not  stand  un 
moved  on  the  shore  of  Plymouth,  while  the  sea  con 
tinues  to  wash  it ;  nor  will  our  brethren  in  another 
early  and  ancient  Colony  forget  the  place  of  its  first 
establishment,  till  their  river  shall  cease  to  flow  by  it.1 
No  vigor  of  youth,  no  maturity  of  manhood,  will  lead 
the  nation  to  forget  the  spots  where  its  infancy  was 
cradled  and  defended. 

But  the  great  event  in  the  history  of  the  continent, 
which  we  are  now  met  here  to  commemorate,  that 
prodigy  of  modern  times,  at  once  the  wonder  and  the 
blessing  of  the  world,  is  the  American  Revolution. 
In  a  day  of  extraordinary  prosperity  and  happiness, 
of  high  national  honor,  distinction,  and  power,  we  are 
brought  together,  in  this  place,  by  our  love  of  country, 
by  our  admiration  of  exalted  character,  by  our  grati 
tude  for  signal  services  and  patriotic  devotion. 

The  Society  whose  organ  I  am  2  was  formed  for  the 
purpose  of  rearing  some  honorable  and  durable  monu 
ment  to  the  memory  of  the  early  friends  of  American 
Independence.  They  have  thought  that  for  this  ob 
ject  no  time  could  be  more  propitious  than  the  present 
prosperous  and  peaceful  period ;  that  no  place  could 

1  An  interesting  account  of  the  voyage  of  the  early  emigrants 
to  the  Maryland  Colony,  and  of  its  settlement,  is  given  in  the 
official  report  of  Father  White,  written  probably  within  the  first 
month  after  the  landing  at  St.  Mary's.  The  original  Latin  man 
uscript  is  still  preserved  among  the  archives  of  the  Jesuits  at 
Rome.  The  Ark  and  the  Dove  are  remembered  with  scarcely 
less  interest  by  the  descendants  of  the  sister  colony,  than  is  the 
Mayflower  in  New  England,  which  thirteen  years  earlier,  at  the 
same  season  of  the  year,  bore  thither  the  Pilgrim  Fathers. 

8  Mr.  Webster  was  at  this  time  President  of  the  Bunker  Hill 
Monument  Association,  chosen  on  the  death  of  Governor  John 
Brooks,  the  first  President 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         828 

claim  preference  over  this  memorable  spot ;  and  that 
no  day  could  be  more  auspicious  to  the  undertaking, 
than  the  anniversary  of  the  battle  which  was  here 
fought.  The  foundation  of  that  monument  we  have 
now  laid.  With  solemnities  suited  to  the  occasion, 
with  prayers  to  Almighty  God  for  his  blessing,  and  in 
the  midst  of  this  cloud  of  witnesses,  we  have  begun 
the  work.  We  trust  it  will  be  prosecuted,  and  that, 
springing  from  a  broad  foundation,  rising  high  in  mas 
sive  solidity  and  unadorned  grandeur,  it  may  remain 
as  long  as  Heaven  permits  the  works  of  man  to  last, 
a  fit  emblem,  both  of  the  events  in  memory  of  which 
it  is  raised,  and  of  the  gratitude  of  those  who  have 
reared  it. 

We  know,  indeed,  that  the  record  of  illustrious  ac 
tions  is  most  safely  deposited  in  the  universal  remem 
brance  of  mankind.  We  know,  that  if  we  could  cause 
this  structure  to  ascend,  not  only  till  it  reached  the 
skies,  but  till  it  pierced  them,  its  broad  surfaces  could 
still  contain  but  part  of  that  which,  in  an  age  of  know 
ledge,  hath  already  been  spread  over  the  earth,  and 
which  history  charges  itself  with  making  known  to  all 
future  times.  We  know  that  no  inscription  on  entab 
latures  less  broad  than  the  earth  itself  can  carry  in 
formation  of  the  events  we  commemorate  where  it  has 
not  already  gone ;  and  that  no  structure,  which  shall 
not  outlive  the  duration  of  letters  and  knowledge 
among  men,  can  prolong  the  memorial.  But  our  ob 
ject  is,  by  this  edifice,  to  show  our  own  deep  sense  of 
the  value  and  importance  of  the  achievements  of  our 
ancestors  ;  and,  by  presenting  this  work  of  gratitude 
to  the  eye,  to  keep  alive  similar  sentiments,  and  to 
foster  a  constant  regard  for  the  principles  of  the  Rev 
olution.  Human  beings  are  composed,  not  of  reason 


824  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

only,  but  of  imagination  also,  and  sentiment ;  and  that 
is  neither  wasted  nor  misapplied  which  is  appropri 
ated  to  the  purpose  of  giving  right  direction  to  senti 
ments,  and  opening  proper  springs  of  feeling  in  thfc 
heart.  Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  our  object  is  to 
perpetuate  national  hostility,  or  even  to  cherish  a  mere 
military  spirit.  It  is  higher,  purer,  nobler.  We  con 
secrate  our  work  to  the  spirit  of  national  indepen 
dence,  and  we  wish  that  the  light  of  peace  may  rest 
upon  it  for  ever.  We  rear  a  memorial  of  our  convic 
tion  of  that  unmeasured  benefit  which  has  been  con 
ferred  on  our  own  land,  and  of  the  happy  influences 
which  have  been  produced,  by  the  same  events,  on  the 
general  interests  of  mankind.  We  come,  as  Ameri 
cans,  to  mark  a  spot  which  must  forever  be  dear  to  us 
and  our  posterity.  We  wish  that  whosoever,  in  all 
coming  time,  shall  turn  his  eye  hither,  may  behold 
that  the  place  is  not  undistinguished  where  the  first 
great  battle  of  the  Revolution  was  fought.  We  wish 
that  this  structure  may  proclaim  the  magnitude  and 
importance  of  that  event  to  every  class  and  every  age. 
We  wish  that  infancy  may  learn  the  purpose  of  its 
erection  from  maternal  lips,  and  that  weary  and  with 
ered  age  may  behold  it,  and  be  solaced  by  the  recol 
lections  which  it  suggests.  We  wish  that  labor  may 
look  up  here,  and  be  proud,  in  the  midst  of  its  toil. 
We  wish  that,  in  those  days  of  disaster,  which,  as  they 
come  upon  all  nations,  must  be  expected  to  come  upon 
us  also,  desponding  patriotism  may  turn  its  eyes  hith- 
erward,  and  be  assured  that  the  foundations  of  our 
national  power  are  still  strong.  We  wish  that  this 
column,  rising  towards  heaven  among  the  pointed 
spires  of  so  many  temples  dedicated  to  God,  may  con 
tribute  also  to  produce,  in  all  minds,  a  pious  feeling 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         825 

of  dependence  and  gratitude.  We  wish,  finally,  that 
the  last  object  to  the  sight  of  him  who  leaves  his  na 
tive  shore,  and  the  first  to  gladden  him  who  revisits  it, 
may  be  something  which  shall  remind  him  of  the  lib 
erty  and  the  glory  of  his  country.  Let  it  rise !  let  it 
rise,  till  it  meet  the  sun  in  his  coming ;  let  the  earliest 
light  of  the  morning  gild  it,  and  parting  day  linger 
,ind  play  on  its  summit. 

We  live  in  a  most  extraordinary  age.  Events  so 
various  and  so  important  that  they  might  crowd  and 
distinguish  centuries  are,  in  our  times,  compressed 
within  the  compass  of  a  single  life.  When  has  it 
happened  that  history  has  had  so  much  to  record,  in 
the  same  term  of  years,  as  since  the  17th  of  June, 
1775  ?  Our  own  revolution,  which,  under  other  cir 
cumstances,  might  itself  have  been  expected  to  occa 
sion  a  war  of  half  a  century,  has  been  achieved ; 
twenty-four  sovereign  and  independent  States  erected ; 
and  a  general  government  established  over  them,  so 
safe,  so  wise,  so  free,  so  practical,  that  we  might  well 
wonder  its  establishment  should  have  been  accom 
plished  so  soon,  were  it  not  far  the  greater  wonder 
that  it  should  have  been  established  at  all.  Two  or 
three  millions  of  people  have  been  augmented  to 
twelve,  the  great  forests  of  the  West  prostrated  be 
neath  the  arm  of  successful  industry,  and  the  dwellers 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  and  the  Mississippi  become 
the  fellow-citizens  and  neighbors  of  those  who  culti 
vate  the  hills  of  New  England.1  We  have  a  commerce 

1  That  which  was  spoken  of  figuratively  in  1825  has,  in  the 
lapse  of  a  quarter  of  a  century,  by  the  introduction  of  railroads 
and  telegraphic  lines,  become  a  reality.  It  is  an  interesting 
circumstance,  that  the  first  railroad  on  the  Western  Continent 
was  constructed  for  the  purpose  of  accelerating  the  erection  of 
this  monument.  —  Edward  Everett,  in  1851. 


826  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

that  leaves  no  sea  unexplored  ;  navies  which  take  no 
law  from  superior  force  ;  revenues  adequate  to  all  the 
exigencies  of  government,  almost  without  taxation; 
and  peace  with  all  nations,  founded  on  equal  rights 
and  mutual  respect. 

Europe,  within  the  same  period,  has  been  agitated 
by  a  mighty  revolution,  which,  while  it  has  been  felt 
in  the  individual  condition  and  happiness  of  almost 
every  man,  has  shaken  to  the  centre  her  political  fab 
ric,  and  dashed  against  one  another  thrones  which 
had  stood  tranquil  for  ages.  On  this,  our  continent, 
our  own  example  has  been  followed,  and  colonies  have 
sprung  up  to  be  nations.  Unaccustomed  sounds  of 
liberty  and  free  government  have  reached  us  from  be 
yond  the  track  of  the  sun ;  and  at  this  moment  the 
dominion  of  European  power  in  this  continent,  from 
the  place  where  we  stand  to  the  south  pole,  is  annihil 
ated  for  ever.1 

In  the  mean  time,  both  in  Europe  and  America, 
such  has  been  the  general  progress  of  knowledge,  such 
the  improvement  in  legislation,  in  commerce,  in  the 
arts,  in  letters,  and,  above  all,  in  liberal  ideas  and  the 
general  spirit  of  the  age,  that  the  whole  world  seems 
changed. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  that  this  is  but  a  faint  ab 
stract  of  the  things  which  have  happened  since  the  day 
of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  we  are  but  fifty  years 
removed  from  it ;  and  we  now  stand  here  to  enjoy  al 
the  blessings  of  our  own  condition,  and  to  look  abroad 
on  the  brightened  prospects  of  the  world,  while  we 
still  have  among  us  some  of  those  who  were  active 
agents  in  the  scenes  of  1775,  and  who  are  now  here, 

1  This  has  special  reference  to  the  Monroe  Doctrine,  then 
fresh  iu  the  minds  of  Mr.  Webster  and  his  hearers. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         327 

from  every  quarter  of  New  England,  to  visit  once  more, 
and  under  circumstances  so  affecting,  I  had  almost 
said  so  overwhelming,  this  renowned  theatre  of  their 
courage  and  patriotism. 

VENERABLE  MEN  !  you  have  come  down  to  us  from  a 
former  generation.  Heaven  has  bounteously  length 
ened  out  your  lives,  that  you  might  behold  this  joyous 
day.  You  are  now  where  you  stood  fifty  years  ago, 
this  very  hour,  with  your  brothers  and  your  neighbors} 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  the  strife  for  your  country. 
Behold,  how  altered  I  The  same  heavens  are  indeed 
over  your  heads ;  the  same  ocean  rolls  at  your  feet ; 
but  all  else  how  changed !  You  hear  now  no  roar  of 
hostile  cannon,  you  see  no  mixed  volumes  of  smoke  and 
flame  rising  from  burning  Charlestown.  The  ground 
strewed  with  the  dead  and  the  dying ;  the  impetuous 
charge ;  the  steady  and  successful  repulse ;  the  loud 
call  to  repeated  assault ;  the  summoning  of  all  that  is 
manly  to  repeated  resistance  ;  a  thousand  bosoms 
freely  and  fearlessly  bared  in  an  instant  to  whatever 
of  terror  there  may  be  in  war  and  death ;  —  all  these 
you  have  witnessed,  but  you  witness  them  no  more. 
All  is  peace.  The  heights  of  yonder  metropolis, 
its  towers  and  roofs,  which  you  then  saw  filled  with 
wives  and  children  and  countrymen  in  distress  and 
terror,  and  looking  with  unutterable  emotions  for  the 
issue  of  the  combat,  have  presented  you  to-day  with 
the  sight  of  its  whole  happy  population,  come  out  to 
welcome  and  greet  you  with  a  universal  jubilee.  Yon 
der  proud  ships,  by  a  felicity  of  position  appropriately 
lying  at  the  foot  of  this  mount,  and  seeming  fondly  to 
cling  around  it,  are  not  means  of  annoyance  to  you, 
but  your  country's  own  means  of  distinction  aud 


DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

defence.1  All  is  peace ;  and  God  has  granted  yon 
this  sight  of  your  country's  happiness,  ere  you  slumber 
in  the  grave.  He  has  allowed  you  to  behold  and  to 
partake  the  reward  of  your  patriotic  toils ;  and  he  has 
allowed  us,  your  sons  and  countrymen,  to  meet  you 
here,  and  in  the  name  of  the  present  generation,  in  the 
name  of  your  country,  in  the  name  of  liberty,  to  thank 
you! 

But,  alas !  you  are  not  all  here !  Time  and  the 
sword  have  thinned  your  ranks.  Prescott,  Putnam, 
Stark,  Brooks,  Bead,  Pomeroy,  Bridge !  our  eyes  seek 
for  you  in  vain  amid  this  broken  band.  You  are 
gathered  to  your  fathers,  and  live  only  to  your  coun 
try  in  her  grateful  remembrance  and  your  own  bright 
example.  But  let  us  not  too  much  grieve,  that  you 
have  met  the  common  fate  of  men.  You  lived  at 
least  long  enough  to  know  that  your  work  had  been 
nobly  and  successfully  accomplished.  You  lived  to 
see  your  country's  independence  established,  and  to 
sheathe  your  swords  from  war.  On  the  light  of  Lib 
erty  you  saw  arise  the  light  of  Peace,  like 

"  another  morn, 
Risen  on  mid-noon  ; " 

and  the  sky  on  which  you  closed  your  eyes  was  cloud 
less. 

But,  ah !  Him !  the  first  great  martyr  in  this  great 
cause  !  Him  !  the  premature  victim  of  his  own  self- 
devoting  heart !  Him  !  the  head  of  our  civil  councils, 
and  the  destined  leader  of  our  military  bands,  whom 
nothing  brought  hither  but  the  unquenchable  fire  of 
his  own  spirit !  Him  !  cut  off  by  Providence  in  the 

1  It  is  necessary  to  inform  those  only  who  are  unacquainted 
with  the  localities,  that  the  United  States  Navy  Yard  at 
Charlestowu  is  situated  at  the  base  of  Bunker  Hill. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         329 

hour  of  overwhelming  anxiety  and  thick  gloom ;  fall 
ing  ere  he  saw  the  star  of  his  country  rise ;  pouring 
out  his  generous  blood  like  water,  before  he  knew 
whether  it  would  fertilize  a  land  of  freedom  or  of 
bondage !  —  how  shall  I  struggle  with  the  emotions 
that  stifle  the  utterance  of  thy  name  I l  Our  poor 
work  may  perish  ;  but  thine  shall  endure !  This  mon 
ument  may  moulder  away ;  the  solid  ground  it  rests 
upon  may  sink  down  to  a  level  with  the  sea ;  but  thy 
memory  shall  not  fail !  Wheresoever  among  men  a 
heart  shall  be  found  that  beats  to  the  transports  of 
patriotism  and  liberty,  its  aspirations  shall  be  to  claim 
kindred  with  thy  spirit. 

But  the  scene  amidst  which  we  stand  does  not  per 
mit  us  to  confine  our  thoughts  or  our  sympathies  to 
those  fearless  spirits  who  hazarded  or  lost  their  lives 
on  this  consecrated  spot.  We  have  the  happiness  to 
rejoice  here  in  the  presence  of  a  most  worthy  repre 
sentation  of  the  survivors  of  the  whole  Revolutionary 
army. 

VETERANS  !  you  are  the  remnant  of  many  a  well- 
fought  field.  You  bring  with  you  marks  of  honor 
from  Trenton  and  Monmouth,  from  Yorktown,  Cam- 
den,  Bennington,  and  Saratoga.  VETERANS  OP  HALF 
A  CENTURY!  when  in  your  youthful  days  you  put 
every  thing  at  hazard  in  your  country's  cause,  good  as 
that  cause  was,  and  sanguine  as  youth  is,  still  your 
fondest  hopes  did  not  stretch  onward  to  an  hour  like 
this  !  At  a  period  to  which  you  could  not  reasonably 
have  expected  to  arrive,  at  a  moment  of  national  pros 
perity  such  as  you  could  never  have  foreseen,  you  are 
now  met  here  to  enjoy  the  fellowship  of  old  soldiers, 
and  to  receive  the  overflowings  of  a  universal  gratitude. 

1  The  name  of  Joseph  Warren  waa  very  dear  to  Americana 
of  Webster's  day. 


330  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

But  your  agitated  countenances  and  your  heaving 
breasts  inform  me  that  even  this  is  not  an  unmixed 
joy.  I  perceive  that  a  tumult  of  contending  feelings 
rushes  upon  you.  The  images  of  the  dead,  as  well 
as  the  persons  of  the  living,  present  themselves  before 
you.  The  scene  overwhelms  you,  and  I  turn  from  it. 
May  the  Father  of  all  mercies  smile  upon  your  declin 
ing  years,  and  bless  them  !  And  when  you  shall  here 
have  exchanged  your  embraces,  when  you  shall  once 
more  have  pressed  the  hands  which  have  been  so  often 
extended  to  give  succor  in  adversity,  or  grasped  in 
the  exultation  of  victory,  then  look  abroad  upon  this 
lovely  land  which  your  young  valor  defended,  and 
mark  the  happiness  with  which  it  is  filled ;  yea,  look 
abroad  upon  the  whole  earth,  and  see  what  a  name  you 
have  contributed  to  give  to  your  country,  and  what 
a  praise  you  have  added  to  freedom,  and  then  rejoice 
in  the  sympathy  and  gratitude  which  beam  upon  your 
last  days  from  the  improved  condition  of  mankind ! 

The  occasion  does  not  require  of  me  any  particular 
account  of  the  battle  of  the  17th  of  June,  1775,  nor 
any  detailed  narrative  of  the  events  which  immedi 
ately  preceded  it.  These  are  familiarly  known  to  all. 
In  the  progress  of  the  great  and  interesting  contro 
versy,  Massachusetts  and  the  town  of  Boston  had  be 
come  early  and  marked  objects  of  the  displeasure  of 
the  British  Parliament.  This  had  been  manifested 
in  the  act  for  altering  the  government  of  the  Pro 
vince,  and  in  that  for  shutting  up  the  port  of  Boston. 
Nothing  sheds  more  honor  on  our  early  history,  and 
nothing  better  shows  how  little  the  feelings  and  sen 
timents  of  the  Colonies  were  known  or  regarded  in 
England,  than  the  impression  which  these  measures 
everywhere  produced  in  America.  It  had  been  anti- 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         331 

cipated,  that  while  the  Colonies  in  general  would  be 
terrified  by  the  severity  of  the  punishment  inflicted 
on  Massachusetts,  the  other  seaports  would  be  gov 
erned  by  a  mere  spirit  of  gain ;  and  that,  as  Boston 
was  now  cut  off  from  all  commerce,  the  unexpected 
advantage  which  this  blow  on  her  was  calculated  to 
confer  on  other  towns  would  be  greedily  enjoyed. 
How  miserably  such  reasoners  deceived  themselves ! 
How  little  they  knew  of  the  depth,  and  the  strength, 
and  the  intenseness  of  that  feeling  of  resistance  to 
illegal  acts  of  power,  which  possessed  the  whole  Amer 
ican  people !  Everywhere  the  unworthy  boon  was 
rejected  with  scorn.  The  fortunate  occasion  was 
seized,  everywhere,  to  show  to  the  whole  world  that 
the  Colonies  were  swayed  by  no  local  interest,  no  par 
tial  interest,  no  selfish  interest.  The  temptation  to 
profit  by  the  punishment  of  Boston  was  strongest  to 
our  neighbors  of  Salem.  Yet  Salem  was  precisely 
the  place  where  this  miserable  proffer  was  spurned, 
in  a  tone  of  the  most  lofty  self-respect  and  the  most 
indignant  patriotism.  "  We  are  deeply  affected," 
said  its  inhabitants,  "with  the  sense  of  our  public 
calamities ;  but  the  miseries  that  are  now  rapidly  has 
tening  on  our  brethren  in  the  capital  of  the  Province 
greatly  excite  our  commiseration.  By  shutting  up  the 
port  of  Boston  some  imagine  that  the  course  of  trade 
might  be  turned  hither  and  to  our  benefit ;  but  we 
must  be  dead  to  every  idea  of  justice,  lost  to  all  feel 
ings  of  humanity,  could  we  indulge  a  thought  to  seize 
on  wealth  and  raise  our  fortunes  on  the  ruin  of  our 
Buffering  neighbors."  These  noble  sentiments  were 
not  confined  to  our  immediate  vicinity.  In  that  day 
of  general  affection  and  brotherhood,  the  blow  given 
to  Boston  smote  on  every  patriotic  heart  from  one 


332  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

?nd  of  the  country  to  the  other.  Virginia  and  the 
Carolinas,  as  well  as  Connecticut  and  New  Hampshire, 
felt  and  proclaimed  the  cause  to  be  their  own.  The 
Continental  Congress,  then  holding  its  first  session  in 
Philadelphia,  expressed  its  sympathy  for  the  suffering 
Inhabitants  of  Boston,  and  addresses  were  received 
from  all  quarters,  assuring  them  that  the  cause  was  a 
common  one,  and  should  be  met  by  common  efforts 
and  common  sacrifices.  The  Congress  of  Massachu 
setts  responded  to  these  assurances  ;  and  in  an  address 
to  the  Congress  at  Philadelphia,  bearing  the  official 
signature,  perhaps  among  the  last,  of  the  immortal 
Warren,  notwithstanding  the  severity  of  its  suffering 
and  the  magnitude  of  the  dangers  which  threatened  it, 
it  was  declared  that  this  Colony  "  is  ready,  at  all  times, 
to  spend  and  to  be  spent  in  the  cause  of  America." 

But  the  hour  drew  nigh  which  was  to  put  profes 
sions  to  the  proof,  and  to  determine  whether  the  au 
thors  of  these  mutual  pledges  were  ready  to  seal  them 
in  blood.  The  tidings  of  Lexington  and  Concord  had 
no  sooner  spread,  than  it  was  universally  felt  that  the 
time  was  at  last  come  for  action.  A  spirit  pervaded 
all  ranks,  not  transient,  not  boisterous,  but  deep,  sol* 
emn,  determined,  — 

"  Totamque  inf  usa  per  artus 
Meiis  agitat  mole  in,  et  magno  se  corpore  miscet."  * 

War  on  their  own  soil  and  at  their  own  doors,  was, 
indeed,  a  strange  work  to  the  yeomanry  of  New  Eng 
land  ;  but  their  consciences  were  convinced  of  its  ne 
cessity,  their  country  called  them  to  it,  and  they  did 
not  withhold  themselves  from  the  perilous  trial.  The 

1  "And  a  Mind,  diffused  throughout  the  members,  gives  en 
ergy  to  the  whole  mass,  and  mingles  with  the  vast  body." 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         383 

ordinary  occupations  of  life  were  abandoned  \  the 
plough  was  stayed  in  the  unfinished  furrow ;  wives 
gave  up  their  husbands,  and  mothers  gave  up  their 
sons,  to  the  battles  of  a  civil  war.  Death  might  come 
in  honor,  on  the  field  ;  it  might  come,  in  disgrace,  on 
the  scaffold.  For  either  and  for  both  they  were  pre 
pared.  The  sentiment  of  Quincy  was  full  in  their 
hearts.  "  Blandishments,"  said  that  distinguished  son 
of  genius  and  patriotism,  "  will  not  fascinate  us,  nor 
will  threats  of  a  halter  intimidate ;  for,  under  God, 
we  are  determined,  that,  wheresoever,  whensoever,  or 
howsoever,  we  shall  be  called  to  make  our  exit,  we  will 
die  free  men." 

The  17th  of  June  saw  the  four  New  England  Colo 
nies  standing  here,  side  by  side,  to  triumph  or  to  fall 
together  5  and  there  was  with  them  from  that  moment 
to  the  end  of  the  war,  what  I  hope  will  remain  with 
them  for  ever,  —  one  cause,  one  country,  one  heart. 

The  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  was  attended  with  the 
most  important  effects  beyond  its  immediate  results  as 
a  military  engagement.  It  created  at  once  a  state  of 
open,  public  war.  There  could  now  be  no  longer  a 
question  of  proceeding  against  individuals,  as  guilty 
of  treason  or  rebellion.  That  fearful  crisis  was  past. 
The  appeal  lay  to  the  sword,  and  the  only  question 
was,  whether  the  spirit  and  the  resources  of  the  people 
would  hold  out  till  the  object  should  be  accomplished. 
Nor  were  its  general  consequences  confined  to  our  own 
country.  The  previous  proceedings  of  the  Coloniea 
their  appeals,  resolutions,  and  addresses,  had  made, 
their  cause  known  to  Europe.  Without  boasting,  we 
may  say,  that  in  no  age  or  country  has  the  public 
cause  been  maintained  with  more  force  of  argument, 
more  power  of  illustration,  or  more  of  that  persuasion 


334  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

which  excited  feeling  and  elevated  principle  can  alone 
bestow,  than  the  Revolutionary  state  papers  exhibit. 
These  papers  will  forever  deserve  to  be  studied,  not 
only  for  the  spirit  which  they  breathe,  but  for  the 
ability  with  which  they  were  written. 

To  this  able  vindication  of  their  cause,  the  Colonies 
had  now  added  a  practical  and  severe  proof  of  their 
own  true  devotion  to  it,  and  given  evidence  also  of  the 
power  which  they  could  bring  to  its  support.  All  now 
saw,  that  if  America  fell,  she  would  not  fall  without  a 
struggle.  Men  felt  sympathy  and  regard,  as  well  as 
surprise,  when  they  beheld  these  infant  states,  remote, 
unknown,  unaided,  encounter  the  power  of  England, 
and,  in  the  first  considerable  battle,  leave  more  of  their 
enemies  dead  on  the  field,  in  proportion  to  the  number 
of  combatants,  than  had  been  recently  known  to  fall 
in  the  wars  of  Europe. 

Information  of  these  events,  circulating  throughout 
the  world,  at  length  reached  the  ears  of  one  who  now 
hears  me.1  He  has  not  forgotten  the  emotion  which 
the  fame  of  Bunker  Hill,  and  the  name  of  Warren, 
excited  in  his  youthful  breast. 

Sir,  we  are  assembled  to  commemorate  the  establish 
ment  of  great  public  principles  of  liberty,  and  to  do 
honor  to  the  distinguished  dead.  The  occasion  is  too 
severe  for  eulogy  of  the  living.  But,  Sir,  your  inter 
esting  relation  to  this  country,  the  peculiar  circum 
stances  which  surround  you  and  surround  us,  call  on 
me  to  express  the  happiness  which  we  derive  from 
your  presence  and  aid  in  this  solemn  commemoration. 

1  Among  the  earliest  of  the  arrangements  for  the  celebration 
of  the  17th  of  June,  1825,  was  the  invitation  to  General  La 
fayette  to  be  present ;  and  he  had  so  timed  his  progress  through 
the  other  States  as  to  return  to  Massachusetts  in  season  for  the 
great  occasion. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         335 

Fortunate,  fortunate  man!  with  what  measure  of 
devotion  will  you  not  thank  God  for  the  circumstances 
of  your  extraordinary  life !  You  are  connected  with 
both  hemispheres  and  with  two  generations.  Heaven 
saw  fit  to  ordain  that  the  electric  spark  of  liberty 
should  be  conducted,  through  you,  from  the  New 
World  to  the  Old ;  and  we,  who  are  now  here  to  per 
form  this  duty  of  patriotism,  have  all  of  us  long  ago 
received  it  in  charge  from  our  fathers  to  cherish  your 
name  and  your  virtues.  You  will  account  ft  an  in 
stance  of  your  good  fortune,  Sir,  that  you  crossed  the 
seas  to  visit  us  at  a  time  which  enables  you  to  be  pres 
ent  at  this  solemnity.  You  now  behold  the  field,  the 
renown  of  which  reached  you  in  the  heart  of  France, 
and  caused  a  thrill  in  your  ardent  bosom.  You  see 
the  lines  of  the  little  redoubt  thrown  up  by  the  incred 
ible  diligence  of  Prescott;  defended,  to  the  last  ex 
tremity,  by  his  lion-hearted  valor ;  and  within  which 
the  corner-stone  of  our  monument  has  now  taken  its 
position.  You  see  where  Warren  fell,  and  where 
Parker,  Gardner,  McCleary,  Moore,  and  other  early 
patriots  fell  with  him.  Those  who  survived  that  day, 
and  whose  lives  have  been  prolonged  to  the  present 
hour,  are  now  around  you.  Some  of  them  you  have 
known  in  the  trying  scenes  of  the  war.  Behold !  they 
now  stretch  forth  their  feeble  arms  to  embrace  you. 
Behold!  they  raise  their  trembling  voices  to  invoke 
the  blessing  of  God  on  you  and  yours  forever. 

Sir,  you  have  assisted  us  in  laying  the  foundation 
of  this  structure.  You  have  heard  us  rehearse,  with 
our  feeble  commendation,  the  names  of  departed  patri 
ots.  Monuments  and  eulogy  belong  to  the  dead.  We 
give  then  this  day  to  Warren  and  his  associates.  On 
other  occasions  they  have  been  given  to  your  more 


886  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

immediate  companions  in  arms,  to  Washington,  to 
Greene,  to  Gates,  to  Sullivan,  and  to  Lincoln.  We 
have  become  reluctant  to  grant  these,  our  highest  and 
last  honors,  further.  We  would  gladly  hold  them  yet 
back  from  the  little  remnant  of  that  immortal  band. 
**  Serus  in  ccelum  redeas." l  Illustrious  as  are  your 
merits,  yet  far,  O,  very  far  distant  be  the  day,  when 
any  inscription  shall  bear  your  name,  or  any  tongue 
pronounce  its  oulogy ! 

The  leading  reflection  to  which  this  occasion  seems 
to  invite  us,  respects  the  great  changes  which  have 
happened  in  the  fifty  years  since  the  battle  of  Bunker 
Hill  was  fought.  And  it  peculiarly  marks  the  char 
acter  of  the  present  age,  that,  in  looking  at  these 
changes,  and  in  estimating  their  effect  on  our  condi 
tion,  we  are  obliged  to  consider,  not  what  has  been 
done  in  our  country  only,  but  in  others  also.  In  these 
interesting  times,  while  nations  are  making  separate 
and  individual  advances  in  improvement,  they  make, 
too,  a  common  progress ;  like  vessels  on  a  common 
tide,  propelled  by  the  gales  at  different  rates,  accord 
ing  to  their  several  structure  and  management,  but  all 
moved  forward  by  one  mighty  current,  strong  enough 
to  bear  onward  whatever  does  not  sink  beneath  it. 

A  chief  distinction  of  the  present  day  is  a  commun 
ity  of  opinions  and  knowledge  amongst  men  in  differ 
ent  nations,  existing  in  a  degree  heretofore  unknown. 
Knowledge  has,  in  our  time,  triumphed,  and  is  tri 
umphing,  over  distance,  over  difference  of  languages, 
over  diversity  of  habits,  over  prejudice,  and  over  big 
otry.  The  civilized  and  Christian  world  is  fast  learn 
ing  the  great  lesson,  that  difference  of  nation  does  not 
imply  necessary  hostility,  and  that  all  contact  need  not 
1  "Late  may  you  return  to  heaven." 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         887 

be  war.  The  whole  world  is  becoming  a  common  field 
for  intellect  to  act  in.  Energy  of  mind,  genius,  power, 
wheresoever  it  exists,  may  speak  out  in  any  tongue, 
and  the  world  will  hear  it.  A  great  chord  of  senti 
ment  and  feeling  runs  through  two  continents,  and 
vibrates  over  both.  Every  breeze  wafts  intelligence 
from  country  to  country,  every  wave  rolls  it ;  all  give 
it  forth,  and  all  in  turn  receive  it.  There  is  a  vast 
commerce  of  ideas ;  there  are  marts  and  exchanges  for 
intellectual  discoveries,  and  a  wonderful  fellowship  of 
those  individual  intelligences  which  make  up  the  mind 
and  opinion  of  the  age.  Mind  is  the  great  lever  of 
all  things ;  human  thought  is  the  process  by  which 
human  ends  are  ultimately  answered ;  and  the  diffu 
sion  of  knowledge,  so  astonishing  in  the  last  half- 
century,  has  rendered  innumerable  minds,  variously 
gifted  by  nature,  competent  to  be  competitors  or  fellow- 
workers  on  the  theatre  of  intellectual  operation. 

From  these  causes  important  improvements  have 
taken  place  in  the  personal  condition  of  individuals. 
Generally  speaking,  mankind  are  not  only  better  fed 
and  better  clothed,  but  they  are  able  also  to  enjoy 
more  leisure  ;  they  possess  more  refinement  and  more 
self-respect.  A  superior  tone  of  education,  manners, 
and  habits  prevails.  This  remark,  most  true  in  its 
application  to  our  own  country,  is  also  partly  true 
when  applied  elsewhere.  It  is  proved  by  the  vastly 
augmented  consumption  of  those  articles  of  manufac 
ture  and  of  commerce  which  contribute  to  the  comforts 
and  the  decencies  of  life ;  an  augmentation  which  has 
far  outrun  the  progress  of  population.  And  while  the 
unexampled  and  almost  incredible  use  of  machinery 
would  seem  to  supply  the  place  of  labor,  labor  still 
finds  its  occupation  and  its  reward;  so  wisely  has 


338  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

Providence  adjusted  men's  wants  and  desires  to  their 
condition  and  their  capacity. 

Any  adequate  survey,  however,  of  the  progress  made 
during  the  last  half-century  in  the  polite  and  the  me 
chanic  arts,  in  machinery  and  manufactures,  in  com 
merce  and  agriculture,  in  letters  and  in  science,  would 
require  volumes.  I  must  abstain  wholly  from  these 
subjects,  and  turn  for  a  moment  to  the  contemplation 
of  what  has  been  done  on  the  great  question  of  poli 
tics  and  government.  This  is  the  master  topic  of  the 
age  ;  and  during  the  whole  fifty  years  it  has  intensely 
occupied  the  thoughts  of  men.  The  nature  of  civil 
government,  its  ends  and  uses,  have  been  canvassed 
and  investigated;  ancient  opinions  attacked  and  de 
fended  ;  new  ideas  recommended  and  resisted,  by 
whatever  power  the  mind  of  man  could  bring  to  the 
controversy.  From  the  closet  and  the  public  halls  the 
debate  has  been  transferred  to  the  field  ;  and  the  world 
has  been  shaken  by  wars  of  unexampled  magnitude, 
and  the  greatest  variety  of  fortune.  A  day  of  peace 
has  at  length  succeeded  ;  and  now  that  the  strife  has 
subsided,  and  the  smoke  cleared  away,  we  may  be 
gin  to  see  what  has  actually  been  done,  permanently 
changing  the  state  and  condition  of  human  society. 
And,  without  dwelling  on  particular  circumstances,  it 
is  most  apparent,  that,  from  the  before-mentioned 
causes  of  augmented  knowledge  and  improved  indi 
vidual  condition,  a  real,  substantial,  and  important 
change  has  taken  place,  and  is  taking  place,  highly 
favorable,  on  the  whole,  to  human  liberty  and  human 
happiness. 

The  great  wheel  of  political  revolution  began  to 
move  in  America.  Here  its  rotation  was  guarded, 
regular,  and  safe.  Transferred  to  the  other  continent, 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         339 

from  unfortunate  but  natural  causes,  it  received  an 
irregular  and  violent  impulse  ;  it  whirled  along  with 
a  fearful  celerity ;  till  at  length,  like  the  chariot- 
wheels  in  the  races  of  antiquity,  it  took  fire  from  the 
rapidity  of  its  own  motion,  and  blazed  onward,  spread 
ing  conflagration  and  terror  around. 

We  learn  from  the  result  of  this  experiment,  how 
fortunate  was  our  own  condition,  and  how  admirably 
the  character  of  our  people  was  calculated  for  setting 
the  great  example  of  popular  governments.  The  pos 
session  of  power  did  not  turn  the  heads  of  the  Amer- 
can  people,  for  they  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  ex 
ercising  a  great  degree  of  self-control.  Although  the 
paramount  authority  of  the  parent  state  existed  over 
them,  yet  a  large  field  of  legislation  had  always  been 
open  to  our  Colonial  assemblies.  They  were  accus 
tomed  to  representative  bodies  and  the  forms  of  free 
government ;  they  understood  the  doctrine  of  the  divi 
sion  of  power  among  different  branches,  and  the  neces 
sity  of  checks  on  each.  The  character  of  our  country 
men,  moreover,  was  sober,  moral,  and  religious ;  and 
there  was  little  in  the  change  to  shock  their  feelings 
of  justice  and  humanity,  or  even  to  disturb  an  honest 
prejudice.  We  had  no  domestic  throne  to  overturn, 
no  privileged  orders  to  cast  down,  no  violent  changes 
of  property  to  encounter.  In  the  American  Revolu 
tion,  no  man  sought  or  wished  for  more  than  to  de 
fend  and  enjoy  his  own.  None  hoped  for  plunder  or 
for  spoil.  Rapacity  was  unknown  to  it ;  the  axe  was 
not  among  the  instruments  of  its  accomplishment ;  and 
we  all  know  that  it  could  not  have  lived  a  single  day 
under  any  well-founded  imputation  of  possessing  a 
tendency  adverse  to  the  Christian  religion. 

It  need  not  surprise  us,  that,  under  circumstances 


340  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

less  auspicious,  political  revolutions  elsewhere,  even 
when  well  intended,  have  terminated  differently.  It 
is,  indeed,  a  great  achievement,  it  is  the  masterwork 
of  the  world,  to  establish  governments  entirely  popu- 
lar  on  lasting  foundations  ;  nor  is  it  easy,  indeed,  to 
introduce  the  popular  principle  at  all  into  govern 
ments  to  which  it  has  been  altogether  a  stranger.  It 
cannot  be  doubted,  however,  that  Europe  has  come 
out  of  the  contest,  in  which  she  has  been  so  long  en 
gaged,  with  greatly  superior  knowledge,  and,  in  many 
respects,  in  a  highly  improved  condition.  Whatever 
benefit  has  been  acquired  is  likely  to  be  retained,  for 
it  consists  mainly  in  the  acquisition  of  more  enlight 
ened  ideas.  And  although  kingdoms  and  provinces 
may  be  wrested  from  the  hands  that  hold  them,  in  the 
same  manner  they  were  obtained ;  although  ordinary 
and  vulgar  power  may,  in  human  affairs,  be  lost  as  it 
has  been  won ;  yet  it  is  the  glorious  prerogative  of  the 
empire  of  knowledge,  that  what  it  gains  it  never  loses. 
On  the  contrary,  it  increases  by  the  multiple  of  its 
own  power ;  all  its  ends  become  means ;  all  its  attain 
ments,  helps  to  new  conquests.  Its  whole  abundant 
harvest  is  but  so  much  seed  wheat,  and  nothing  has 
limited,  and  nothing  can  limit,  the  amount  of  ultimate 
product. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  rapidly  increasing  know 
ledge,  the  people  have  begun,  in  all  forms  of  govern 
ment,  to  think,  and  to  reason,  on  affairs  of  state.  Re 
garding  government  as  an  institution  for  the  public 
good,  they  demand  a  knowledge  of  its  operations,  and 
a  participation  in  its  exercise.  A  call  for  the  repre 
sentative  system,  wherever  it  is  not  enjoyed,  and  where 
there  is  already  intelligence  enough  to  estimate  its 
value,  is  perseveringly  made.  Where  men  may  speak 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         341 

out,  they  demand  it;  where  the  bayonet  is  at  their 
throats,  they  pray  for  it. 

When  Louis  the  Fourteenth  said, "  I  am  the  State," 
he  expressed  the  essence  of  the  doctrine  of  unlimited 
power.  By  the  rules  of  that  system,  the  people  are 
disconnected  from  the  state ;  they  are  its  subjects,  it 
is  their  lord.  These  ideas,  founded  in  the  love  of 
power,  and  long  supported  by  the  excess  and  the  abuse 
of  it,  are  yielding,  in  our  age,  to  other  opinions ;  and 
the  civilized  world  seems  at  last  to  be  proceeding  to 
the  conviction  of  that  fundamental  and  manifest  truth, 
that  the  powers  of  government  are  but  a  trust,  and 
that  they  cannot  be  lawfully  exercised  but  for  the 
good  of  the  community.  As  knowledge  is  more  and 
more  extended,  this  conviction  becomes  more  and 
more  general.  Knowledge,  in  truth,  is  the  great  sun 
in  the  firmament.  Life  and  power  are  scattered  with 
all  its  beams.  The  prayer  of  the  Grecian  champion, 
when  enveloped  in  unnatural  clouds  and  darkness,  is 
the  appropriate  political  supplication  for  the  people  of 
every  country  not  yet  blessed  with  free  institutions  :  — 
"  Dispel  this  cloud,  the  light  of  heaven  restore, 
Give  me  TO  SEE,  —  and  Ajax  asks  no  more." 

We  may  hope  that  the  growing  influence  of  en 
lightened  sentiment  will  promote  the  permanent  peace 
of  the  world.  Wars  to  maintain  family  alliances,  to 
uphold  or  to  cast  down  dynasties,  and  to  regulate  suc 
cessions  to  thrones,  which  have  occupied  so  much 
room  in  the  history  of  modern  times,  if  not  less  likely 
to  happen  at  all,  will  be  less  likely  to  become  general 
and  involve  many  nations,  as  the  great  principle  shall 
be  more  and  more  established,  that  the  interest  of  the 
world  is  peace,  and  its  first  great  statute,  that  every 
nation  possesses  the  power  of  establishing  a  govern- 


342  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

ment  for  itself.  But  public  opinion  has  attained  also 
an  influence  over  governments  which  do  not  admit  the 
popular  principle  into  their  organization.  A  neces 
sary  respect  for  the  judgment  of  the  world  operates, 
hi  some  measure,  as  a  control  over  the  most  unlimited 
forms  of  authority.  It  is  owing,  perhaps,  to  this 
truth,  that  the  interesting  struggle  of  the  Greeks  has 
been  suffered  to  go  on  so  long,  without  a  direct  inter 
ference,  either  to  wrest  that  country  from  its  present 
masters,  or  to  execute  the  system  of  pacification  by 
force ;  and,  with  united  strength,  lay  the  neck  of 
Christian  and  civilized  Greek  at  the  foot  of  the  bar 
barian  Turk.  Let  us  thank  God  that  we  live  in  an 
age  when  something  has  influence  besides  the  bayonet, 
and  when  the  sternest  authority  does  not  venture  to 
encounter  the  scorching  power  of  public  reproach. 
Any  attempt  of  the  kind  I  have  mentioned  should  be 
met  by  one  universal  burst  of  indignation  ;  the  air  of 
the  civilized  world  ought  to  be  made  too  warm  to  be 
comfortably  breathed  by  any  one  who  would  hazard  it. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  touching  reflection,  that,  while,  in 
the  fulness  of  our  country's  happiness,  we  rear  this 
monument  to  her  honor,  we  look  for  instruction  in  our 
undertaking  to  a  country  which  is  now  in  fearful  con 
test,  not  for  works  of  art  or  memorials  of  glory,  but 
for  her  own  existence.  Let  her  be  assured,  that  she 
is  not  forgotten  in  the  world ;  that  her  efforts  are  ap 
plauded,  and  that  constant  prayers  ascend  for  her 
success.  And  let  us  cherish  a  confident  hope  for  her 
final  triumph.  If  the  true  spark  of  religious  and  civil 
liberty  be  kindled,  it  will  burn.  Human  agency  can 
not  extinguish  it.  Like  the  earth's  central  fire,  it 
may  be  smothered  for  a  time ;  the  ocean  may  over 
whelm  it ;  mountains  may  press  it  down ;  but  its  in- 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT. 

herent  and  unconquerable  force  will  heave  both  the 
ocean  and  the  land,  and  at  some  time  or  other,  in  some 
place  or  other,  the  volcano  will  break  out  and  flame 
up  to  heaven. 

Among  the  great  events  of  the  half-century,  we 
must  reckon,  certainly,  the  revolution  of  South  Amer 
ica  ;  and  we  are  not  likely  to  overrate  the  importance 
of  that  revolution,  either  to  the  people  of  the  country 
itself  or  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  late  Spanish 
colonies,  now  independent  states,  under  circumstances 
less  favorable,  doubtless,  than  attended  our  own  revo 
lution,  have  yet  successfully  commenced  their  national 
existence.  They  have  accomplished  the  great  object 
of  establishing  their  independence  ;  they  are  known 
and  acknowledged  in  the  world ;  and  although  in  re 
gard  to  their  systems  of  government,  their  sentiments 
on  religious  toleration,  and  their  provision  for  public 
instruction,  they  may  have  yet  much  to  learn,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  they  have  risen  to  the  condition  of 
settled  and  established  states  more  rapidly  than  could 
have  been  reasonably  anticipated.  They  already  fur 
nish  an  exhilarating  example  of  the  difference  between 
free  governments  and  despotic  misrule.  Their  com 
merce,  at  this  moment,  creates  a  new  activity  in  all 
the  great  marts  of  the  world.  They  show  themselves 
able,  by  an  exchange  of  commodities,  to  bear  a  useful 
part  in  the  intercourse  of  nations. 

A  new  spirit  of  enterprise  and  industry  begins  to 
prevail;  all  the  great  interests  of  society  receive  a 
salutary  impulse ;  and  the  progress  of  information  not 
only  testifies  to  an  improved  condition,  but  itself  con 
stitutes  the  highest  and  most  essential  improvement. 

When  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  was  fought,  the 
existence  of  South  America  was  scarcely  felt  in  the 


844  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

civilized  world.  The  thirteen  little  colonies  of  North 
America  habitually  called  themselves  the  "continent.'* 
Borne  down  by  colonial  subjugation,  monopoly,  and 
bigotry,  these  vast  regions  of  the  South  were  hardly 
visible  above  the  horizon.  But  in  our  day  there  has 
been,  as  it  were,  a  new  creation.  The  southern  hemi 
sphere  emerges  from  the  sea.  Its  lofty  mountains  be 
gin  to  lift  themselves  into  the  light  of  heaven;  its 
broad  and  fertile  plains  stretch  out,  in  beauty,  to  the 
eye  of  civilized  man,  and  at  the  mighty  bidding  of  the 
voice  of  political  liberty  the  waters  of  darkness  retire. 

And  now,  let  us  indulge  an  honest  exultation  in  the 
conviction  of  the  benefit  which  the  example  of  our 
country  has  produced,  and  is  likely  to  produce,  <ti  hu 
man  freedom  and  human  happiness.  Let  us  endeavor 
to  comprehend  in  all  its  magnitude,  and  to  feel  in  all 
its  importance,  the  part  assigned  to  us  in  the  great 
drama  of  human  affairs.  We  are  placed  at  the  head 
of  the  system  of  representative  and  popular  govern 
ments.  Thus  far  our  example  shows  that  such  govern 
ments  are  compatible,  not  only  with  respectability  and 
power,  but  with  repose,  with  peace,  with  security  of 
personal  rights,  with  good  laws,  and  a  just  adminis 
tration. 

We  are  not  propagandists.  Wherever  other  sys 
tems  are  preferred,  either  as  being  thought  better  in 
themselves,  or  as  better  suited  to  existing  conditions, 
we  leave  the  preference  to  be  enjoyed.  Our  history 
hitherto  proves,  however,  that  the  popular  form  is 
practicable,  and  that  with  wisdom  and  knowledge  men 
may  govern  themselves ;  and  the  duty  incumbent  on 
us  is  to  preserve  the  consistency  of  this  cheering  ex 
ample,  and  take  care  that  nothing  may  weaken  its 
authority  with  the  world.  If,  in  our  case,  the  repre- 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.         345 

sentative  system  ultimately  fail,  popular  governments 
must  be  pronounced  impossible.  No  combination  of 
circumstances  more  favorable  to  the  experiment  can 
ever  be  expected  to  occur.  The  last  hopes  of  man- 
kind,  therefore,  rest  with  us ;  and  if  it  should  be  pro 
claimed,  that  our  example  had  become  an  argument 
against  the  experiment,  the  knell  of  popular  liberty 
would  be  sounded  throughout  the  earth. 

These  are  excitements  to  duty ;  but  they  are  not 
suggestions  of  doubt.  Our  history  and  our  condition, 
all  that  is  gone  before  us,  and  all  that  surrounds  us, 
authorize  the  belief,  that  popular  governments,  though 
subject  to  occasional  variations,  in  form  perhaps  not 
always  for  the  better,  may  yet,  in  their  general  char 
acter,  be  as  durable  and  permanent  as  other  systems. 
We  know,  indeed,  that  in  our  country  any  other  is 
impossible.  The  principle  of  free  governments  adheres 
to  the  American  soiL  It  is  bedded  in  it,  immovable 
as  its  mountains. 

And  let  the  sacred  obligations  which  have  devolved 
on  this  generation,  and  on  us,  sink  deep  into  our 
hearts.  Those  who  established  our  liberty  and  our 
government  are  daily  dropping  from  among  us.  The 
great  trust  now  descends  to  new  hands.  Let  us  apply 
ourselves  to  that  which  is  presented  to  us,  as  our  ap 
propriate  object.  We  can  win  no  laurels  in  a  war 
for  independence.  Earlier  and  worthier  hands  have 
gathered  them  all.  Nor  are  there  places  for  us  by  the 
side  of  Solon,  and  Alfred,  and  other  founders  of  states. 
Our  fathers  have  filled  them.  But  there  remains  to 
us  a  great  duty  of  defence  and  preservation  ;  and  there 
is  opened  to  us,  also,  a  noble  pursuit,  to  which  the 
spirit  of  the  times  strongly  invites  us.  Our  proper 
business  is  improvement.  Let  our  age  be  the  age  of 


846  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

improvement.  In  a  day  of  peace,  let  us  advance  the 
arts  of  peace  and  the  works  of  peace.  Let  us  develop 
the  resources  of  our  land,  call  forth  its  powers,  build 
up  its  institutions,  promote  all  its  great  interests,  and 
see  whether  we  also,  in  our  day  and  generation,  may 
not  perform  something  worthy  to  be  remembered. 
Let  us  cultivate  a  true  spirit  of  union  and  harmony. 
In  pursuing  the  great  objects  which  our  condition 
points  out  to  us,  let  us  act  under  a  settled  conviction, 
and  an  habitual  feeling,  that  these  twenty-four  States 
are  one  country.  Let  our  conceptions  be  enlarged  to 
the  circle  of  our  duties.  Let  us  extend  our  ideas  over 
the  whole  of  the  vast  field  in  which  we  are  called  to 
act.  Let  our  object  be,  OUR  COUNTRY,  OUE  WHOLE 

COUNTRY,  AND  NOTHING  BUT  OUR  COUNTRY.   And, 

by  the  blessing  of  God,  may  that  country  itself  be 
come  a  vast  and  splendid  monument,  not  of  oppression 
and  terror,  but  of  Wisdom,  of  Peace,  and  of  Liberty, 
upon  which  the  world  may  gaze  with  admiration  for 
ever  I 


EDWARD  EVERETT. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

EDWARD  EVEBETT  was  born  at  Dorchester,  Mass.,  April 
11,  1794.  At  the  age  of  eight  he  was,  for  a  short  time,  a 
pupil  of  Daniel  Webster,  who  was  twelve  years  his  senior. 
The  acquaintance  then  begun  between  these  embryo  orators 
ripened  into  a  lasting  friendship. 

His  son,  Dr.  William  Everett,  says  in  a  speech  made  at 
the  Harvard  Commencement  Dinner  of  1891 :  "  My  father's 
connection  with  Harvard  College  began  eighty-seven  years 
ago,  when  he  was  a  child  of  ten.  His  older  brother  was  in 
college,  living  in  the  south  entry  of  Hollis.  The  child 
was  to  begin  the  study  of  Greek  in  the  winter  vacation. 
The  family  were  too  poor  to  afford  two  Greek  grammars ; 
and  little  Edward  had  to  walk  in  the  depth  of  winter  from 
the  corner  of  Essex  and  Washington  streets  in  Boston  over 
the  then  most  lonely  road  to  the  college  and  secure  the 
prized  volume.  From  that  day  his  connection  with  Har 
vard  College  was  scarcely  broken  till  his  death.  He  was 
four  years  an  undergraduate,  .  .  .  two  years  a  tutor,  nine 
years  a  professor,  three  years  president,  and  at  two  differ 
ent  times  an  overseer ;  at  his  death  he  held  an  appointment 
as  college  lecturer." 

The  older  brother  referred  to  above  was  Alexander  Hill 
Everett,  who  was  graduated  with  the  highest  honors  at  the 
age  of  fourteen.  Five  years  later  (in  1811)  Edward  was 
graduated  with  the  highest  honors  at  the  age  of  seventeen ; 
he  was  regarded  in  college  as  a  prodigy  of  youthful  genius. 


348  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

In  1812  he  became  a  tutor  at  Harvard,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  student  of  theology.  On  February  9,  1814,  at  the 
youthful  age  of  nineteen,  he  was  ordained  as  pastor  of  the 
Brattle  Street  Church,  at  Boston,  where  he  immediately 
rose  to  distinction  as  an  eloquent  and  impressive  pulpit 
orator. 

In  March,  1815,  he  accepted  the  Eliot  Professorship  of 
Greek  at  Harvard  College.  In  order  to  become  better  pre 
pared  for  the  duties  of  the  position  he  travelled  and  studied 
in  Europe  until  1819.  While  abroad  he  pursued  an  exten 
sive  range  of  study  at  the  principal  centres  of  learning,  and 
he  took  the  degree  of  Ph.  D.  at  the  University  of  Gottingen. 
His  return  to  Cambridge  was  hailed  with  delight,  and  gave 
a  wonderful  impulse  to  American  scholarship.  In  addition 
to  his  duties  as  ^..ofessor  he  took  charge  of  the  North 
American  Review,  which  he  conducted  for  five  years. 

In  1824  he  delivered  his  celebrated  Phi  Beta  Kappa  ora 
tion  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  to  an  immense  audience,  including 
General  Lafayette,  in  which  he  portrayed  in  eloquent  and 
patriotic  terms  the  political,  social,  and  literary  future  of 
our  country.  In  the  same  year  he  was  elected  a  member 
of  the  National  House  of  Representatives  ;  after  four  re- 
elections  and  a  valuable  service  of  ten  years  as  Congressman 
he  was  chosen  Governor  of  Massachusetts.  He  was  annu 
ally  reflected  Governor  until  1839,  when  he  was  defeated 
by  a  majority  of  one  vote. 

In  1841,  after  nearly  a  year's  sojourn  in  Europe,  he  was 
appointed  Minister  Plenipotentiary  to  Great  Britain,  under 
General  Harrison  as  President  and  his  friend  Daniel  Web 
ster  as  Secretary  of  State.  In  1845  he  returned  to  America 
and  became  for  three  years  President  of  Harvard  College. 
In  1850  he  published  his  speeches  and  orations  in  two  vol 
umes,  and  at  about  the  same  time  edited  Daniel  Webster's 
•works  in  six  volumes,  for  which  he  prepared  an  elaborate 
memoir.  Upon  the  death  of  Webster  in  1852,  Everett  took 
his  place  as  Secretary  of  State  under  President  Fiilmore. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  849 

From  March,  1853,  to  May,  1854,  he  was  in  the  United 
States  Senate. 

On  February  22,  1856,  he  delivered  in  Boston  an  address, 
on  the  Character  of  Washington,  which  he  repeated  in  dif 
ferent  cities  and  towns  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty  times. 
He  gave  the  entire  proceeds  of  this  address  toward  the  pur 
chase  of  Mt.  Vernon,  the  home  of  Washington,  for  the  gen 
eral  government.  He  also  gave  for  the  same  purpose 
$10,000  received  for  articles  written  for  the  New  York 
Ledger,  thus  raising  the  entire  amount  contributed  by  him 
to  over  $100,000.  In  1857  and  1858  he  gave  to  different 
charitable  associations  the  proceeds  of  other  addresses, 
amounting  to  nearly  $20,000. 

In  1860  he  was  nominated  for  the  Vice-Presidency  on  the 
ticket  with  John  Bell,  of  Tennessee,  but  was  defeated. 
Though  anxious  for  peace  while  there  was  a  chance  to  avoid 
war,  he  threw  the  whole  weight  of  his  powers  into  a  support 
of  the  Union  after  the  War  of  Secession  began,  and  won 
the  gratitude  of  his  countrymen  by  the  fervent,  patriotic 
eloquence  of  his  speeches  in  all  the  principal  cities  of  the 
North.  His  death  occurred  on  January  15,  1865,  and  re 
sulted  from  a  cold  caught  on  the  evening  of  January  9, 
while  delivering  an  address  in  aid  of  the  suffering  inhabi 
tants  of  Savannah,  which  had  just  been  captured  by  Gen. 
Sherman. 

Edward  Everett's  life  of  seventy-one  years  spanned  a  larg« 
portion  of  the  youth  of  our  nation.  Born  in  the  administra 
tion  of  Washington,  he  lived  to  see  the  War  of  Secession 
practically  ended  under  Lincoln.  Although  thirty-six  years 
old  before  the  first  locomotive  engine  made  its  appearance 
in  the  United  States,  he  lived  to  see  our  country  covered 
with  a  network  of  over  thirty-five  thousand  miles  of  rail 
ways.  During  his  life  the  population  of  the  United  States 
increased  from  about  four  to  thirty  millions,  and  the  number 
of  States  from  fifteen  to  thirty-six. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  was  fired  with  an  in- 


350 


EDWARD  EVERETT. 


tense  feeling  of  patriotism,  or  that  his  noble  utterances  struck 
responsive  chords  in  the  hearts  of  his  listeners.  He  had  a 
theory  that  man  can  do  fairly  well  anything  that  he  honestly 
tries  to  do ;  his  own  practice  was  to  undertake  whatever 
work  lay  before  him,  and  so  extraordinary  was  the  versatility 
of  his  great  mental  power  that  he  did  remarkably  well  what 
ever  he  undertook.  He  achieved  distinction  as  an  orator, 
a  man  of  letters,  a  statesman,  and  a  diplomatist,  but  the 
single  title  which  describes  him  best  is  that  of  orator.  Had 
he  labored  continuously  in  some  chosen  field  he  would  have 
left  behind  him  even  a  greater  monument  of  his  remarkable 
power  than  is  to  be  found  in  his  numerous  speeches  and 
orations. 


j'ROM  "THE    CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON." 

COMMON  sense  was  eminently  a  characteristic  of 
Washington ;  so  called,  not  because  it  is  so  very  com 
mon  a  trait  of  character  of  public  men,  but  because  it 
is  the  final  judgment  on  great  practical  questions  to 
which  the  mind  of  the  community  is  pretty  sure  even 
tually  to  arrive.  Few  qualities  of  character  in  those 
who  influence  the  fortunes  of  nations  are  so  conducive 
both  to  stability  and  progress.  But  it  is  a  quality 
which  takes  no  hold  of  the  imagination ;  it  inspires  no 
enthusiasm,  it  wins  no  favor ;  it  is  well  if  it  can  stand 
its  ground  against  the  plausible  absurdities,  the  hol 
low  pretences,  the  stupendous  impostures  of  the  day. 

But,  however  these  unobtrusive  and  austere  virtues 
may  be  overlooked  in  the  popular  estimate,  they  be 
long  unquestionably  to  the  true  type  of  sterling  great 
ness,  reflecting  as  far  as  it  can  be  done  within  the 
narrow  limits  of  humanity  that  deep  repose  and  silent 
equilibrium  of  mental  and  moral  power  which  governs 
the  universe.  To  complain  of  the  character  of  Wash 
ington  that  it  is  destitute  of  brilliant  qualities,  is  to 
complain  of  a  circle  that  it  has  no  salient  points  and 
no  sharp  angles  in  its  circumference  ;  forgetting  that 
it  owes  all  its  wonderful  properties  to  the  unbroken 
curve  of  which  every  point  is  equidistant  from  the 
centre.1  Instead,  therefore,  of  being  a  mark  of  infe- 

1  I  was  not  aware,  when  I  wrote  this  sentence,  that  I  had  ever 
read  Dryden's  "  Heroic  Stanzas  consecrated  to  the  Memory  of 
his  Highness  Oliver,  late  Lord  Protector  of  this  Commonwealth, 


352  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

riority,  this  sublime  adjustment  of  powers  and  virtues 
in  the  character  of  Washington  is  in  reality  its  glory. 
It  is  this  which  chiefly  puts  him  in  harmony  with 
more  than  human  greatness.  The  higher  we  rise  in 
the  scale  of  being,  —  material,  intellectual,  and  moral, 
—  the  more  certainly  we  quit  the  region  of  the  bril 
liant  eccentricities  and  dazzling  contrasts  which  belong 
to  a  vulgar  greatness.  Order  and  proportion  charac 
terize  the  primordial  constitution  of  the  terrestrial  sys 
tem  ;  ineffable  harmony  rules  the  heavens.  All  the 
great  eternal  forces  act  in  solemn  silence.  The  brawl 
ing  torrent  that  dries  up  in  summer  deafens  you  with 
its  roaring  whirlpools  in  March ;  while  the  vast  earth 
on  which  we  dwell,  with  all  its  oceans  and  all  its  con 
tinents  and  its  thousand  millions  of  inhabitants,  re 
volves  unheard  upon  its  soft  axle  at  the  rate  of  a  thou 
sand  miles  an  hour,  and  rushes  noiselessly  on  its  orbit  a 
million  and  a  half  miles  a  day.  Two  storm-clouds  en 
camped  upon  opposite  hills  on  a  sultry  summer's  even 
ing,  at  the  expense  of  no  more  electricity,  according 
to  Mr.  Faraday,  than  is  evolved  in  the  decomposition 
of  a  single  drop  of  water,  will  shake  the  surrounding 
atmosphere  with  their  thunders,  which,  loudly  as  they 
rattle  on  the  spot,  will  yet  not  be  heard  at  the  distance 
of  twenty  miles ;  while  those  tremendous  and  unutter 
able  forces  which  ever  issue  from  the  throne  of  God, 
and  drag  the  chariot-wheels  of  Uranus  and  Neptune 
along  the  uttermost  pathways  of  the  solar  system,  per 
vade  the  illimitable  universe  in  silence. 

written  after  celebrating  his  funeral,"  one  of  which  is  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

"  How  shall  I  then  begin  or  where  conclude, 

To  draw  a  fame  BO  truly  circular, 
For  in  a  round  what  order  can  be  shewed, 
When  all  the  parts  so  equal  perfect  are  ?  " 


THE   CHARACTER   OF  WASHINGTON.      353 

This  calm  and  well-balanced  temperament  of  Wash 
ington's  character  is  not  badly  shadowed  forth  in  the 
poet's  description  of  Cicero :  — 

"  This  magistrate  hath  struck  an  awe  into  me, 
And  by  his  sweetness  won  a  more  regard 
Unto  his  place,  than  all  the  boisterous  mood* 
That  ignorant  greatness  practiseth  to  fill 
The  large  unfit  authority  it  wears. 
How  easy  is  a  noble  spirit  discerned 
From  harsh  and  sulphurous  matter,  that  flies  out 
In  contumelies,  makes  a  noise,  and  bursts."  l 

And  did  I  say,  my  friends,  that  I  was  unable  to  fur 
nish  an  entirely  satisfactory  answer  to  the  question,  in 
what  the  true  excellence  of  the  character  of  Washing 
ton  consists?  Let  me  recall  the  word  as  unjust  to 
myself  and  unjust  to  you.  The  answer  is  plain  and 
simple  enough  ;  it  is  this,  that  all  the  great  qualities 
of  disposition  and  action,  which  so  eminently  fitted 
him  for  the  service  of  his  fellow-men,  were  founded  on 
the  basis  of  a  pure  Christian  morality,  and  derived 
their  strength  and  energy  from  that  vital  source.  He 
was  great  as  he  was  good ;  he  was  great  because  he 
was  good  ;  and  I  believe,  as  I  do  in  my  existence,  that 
it  was  an  important  part  in  the  design  of  Providence 
in  raising  him  up  to  be  the  leader  of  the  Revolution 
ary  struggle,  and  afterwards  the  first  President  of  the 
United  States,  to  rebuke  prosperous  ambition  and  suc 
cessful  intrigue  ;  to  set  before  the  people  of  America, 
in  the  morning  of  their  national  existence,  a  living  ex 
ample  to  prove  that  armies  may  be  best  conducted, 
and  governments  most  ably  and  honorably  adminis 
tered,  by  men  of  sound  moral  principle  ;  to  teach  to 
gifted  and  aspiring  individuals,  and  the  parties  they 
lead,  that,  though  a  hundred  crooked  paths  may  con- 
1  Ben  Jonson's  Catiline. 


354  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

duct  to  a  temporary  success,  the  one  plain  and  straight 
path  of  public  and  private  virtue  can  alone  lead  to  a 
pure  and  lasting  fame  and  the  blessings  of  posterity. 

Born  beneath  an  humble  but  virtuous  roof,  brought 
up  at  the  knees  of  a  mother  not  unworthy  to  be  named 
with  the  noblest  matrons  of  Rome  or  Israel,  the  "  good 
boy,"  as  she  delighted  to  call  him,  passed  uncorrupted 
through  the  temptations  of  the  solitary  frontier,  the 
camp,  and  the  gay  world,  and  grew  up  into  the  good 
man.  Engaging  in  early  youth  in  the  service  of  the 
country,  rising  rapidly  to  the  highest  trusts,  office  and 
influence  and  praise  passing  almost  the  bounds  of  hu 
man  desert  did  nothing  to  break  down  the  austere  sim 
plicity  of  his  manners  or  to  shake  the  solid  basis  of  his 
virtues.  Placed  at  the  head  of  the  suffering  and  dis 
contented  armies  of  his  country,  urged  by  the  tempter 
to  change  his  honest  and  involuntary  dictatorship  of 
influence  into  a  usurped  dictatorship  of  power,  reluc 
tantly  consenting  to  one  reelection  to  the  Presidency 
and  positively  rejecting  a  second,  no  suspicion  ever 
crossed  the  mind  of  an  honest  man,  —  let  the  libellers 
say  what  they  would,  for  libellers  I  am  sorry  to  say 
there  were  in  that  day  as  in  this,  —  men  who  pick 
their  daily  dishonorable  bread  out  of  the  characters  of 
men  as  virtuous  as  themselves,  —  and  they  spared  not 
Washington,  —  but  the  suspicion  never  entered  into 
the  mind  of  an  honest  man,  that  his  heart  was  open  to 
the  seductions  of  ambition  or  interest ;  or  that  he  was 
capable  in  the  slightest  degree,  by  word  or  deed,  of 
shaping  his  policy  with  a  view  to  court  popular  favor 
or  serve  a  selfish  end ;  that  a  wish  or  purpose  ever 
entered  his  mind  inconsistent  with  the  spotless  purity 
of  his  character. 


THE  CHARACTER   OF  WASHINGTON.      355 

"  No  veil 

He  needed,  virtue  proof,  no  thought  infirm 
Altered  his  cheek." 

And  is  the  judgment  of  mankind  so  depraved,  is  their 
perception  of  moral  worth  so  dull,  that  they  can  with 
hold  their  admiration  from  such  a  character  and  be 
stow  it,  for  instance,  upon  the  hard-hearted,  wondrous 
youth  of  ancient  renown,  who  when  he  had  trampled 
the  effeminate  rabble  of  the  East  under  the  iron  feet 
of  his  Macedonian  Phalanx,  and  that  world  which  he 
wept  to  conquer  was  in  fact  grovelling  at  his  footstool ; 
when  he  might  have  founded  a  dynasty  at  Babylon 
which  would  have  crushed  the  Roman  domination  in 
the  bud,  and  changed  the  history  of  the  world  from 
that  time  to  this,  could  fool  away  the  sceptre  of  uni 
versal  dominion  which  Providence  was  forcing  into 
his  hand  in  one  night's  debauch,  and  quench  power 
and  glory  and  reason  and  life  in  the  poisonous  cup  of 
wine  and  harlotry  ? 

Can  men  coldly  qualify  their  applause  of  the  patriot 
hero  of  the  American  Revolution,  who  never  drew  his 
sword  but  in  a  righteous  defensive  war,  and  magnify 
the  name  of  the  great  Roman  Dictator  who  made  the 
"  bravo's  trade  "  the  merciless  profession  of  his  life, 
and  trained  his  legions  in  the  havoc  of  unoffending 
foreign  countries  for  the  "  more  than  civil  wars  "  in 
which  he  prostrated  the  liberties  of  his  own  ? 

Can  they  seriously  disparage  our  incorruptible 
Washington,  who  would  not  burden  the  impoverished 
treasury  of  the  Union  by  accepting  even  the  frugal 
pay  of  his  rank  ;  whose  entire  expenditure  charged  to 
the  public  for  the  whole  war  was  less  than  the  cost  of 
the  stationery  of  Congress  for  a  single  year ;  whom  all 
the  gold  of  California  and  Australia  could  not  have 


356  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

bribed  to  a  mean  act,  —  can  they  seriously  disparage 
him  in  comparison  with  such  a  man  as  the  hero  oi 
Blenheim,  the  renowned  English  commander,  the  ablest 
general,  the  most  politic  statesman,  the  most  adroit 
negotiator  of  the  day,  —  of  whom  it  has  been  truly 
said  that  he  never  formed  the  plan  of  a  campaign 
which  he  failed  to  execute,  never  besieged  a  city  which 
he  did  not  take,  never  fought  a  battle  which  he  did 
not  gain,  and  who,  alas  !  caused  the  muster-rolls  of  his 
victorious  army  to  be  fraudently  made  out,  and  pock 
eted  the  pay  which  he  drew  in  the  names  of  men  who 
had  fallen  in  his  own  sight  four  years  before. 

There  is  a  splendid  monumental  pile  in  England, 
the  most  magnificent  perhaps  of  her  hundred  palaces, 
founded  in  the  time  of  Queen  Anne  at  the  public  cost, 
to  perpetuate  the  fame  of  Marlborough.  The  grand 
building,  with  its  vast  wings  and  spacious  courts,  cov 
ers  seven  acres  and  a  half  of  land.  It  is  approached 
on  its  various  sides  by  twelve  gates  or  bridges,  some 
of  them  triumphal  gates,  in  a  circumference  of  thirteen 
miles,  enclosing  the  noble  park  of  twenty-seven  hun 
dred  acres  (Boston  Common  has  forty-three),  in  which 
the  castle  stands,  surrounded  by  the  choicest  beauties 
of  forest  and  garden  and  fountain  and  lawn  and 
stream.  All  that  gold  could  buy,  or  the  bounty  of 
his  own  or  foreign  princes  could  bestow,  or  taste  de 
vise,  or  art  execute,  or  ostentation  could  lavish,  to  per 
fect  and  adorn  the  all  but  regal  structure,  without 
and  within,  is  there.  Its  saloons  and  its  galleries,  ita 
library  and  its  museum,  among  the  most  spacious  ir 
England  for  a  private  mansion,  are  filled  with  the 
rarities  and  wonders  of  ancient  and  modern  art.  Elo 
quent  inscriptions  from  the  most  gifted  pens  of  the 
age  —  the  English  by  Lord  Bolingbroke,  the  Latin,  I 


THE   CHARACTER   OF  WASHINGTON.      357 

believe,  by  Bishop  Hoadley  —  set  forth  on  triumphal 
arches  and  columns  the  exploits  of  him  to  whom  the 
whole  edifice  and  the  domains  which  surround  it  are 
one  gorgeous  monument.  Lest  human  adulation 
should  prove  unequal  to  the  task,  Nature  herself  has 
been  called  in  to  record  his  achievements.  They  have 
been  planted,  rooted  in  the  soil.  Groves  and  coppices, 
curiously  disposed,  represent  the  position,  the  num 
bers,  the  martial  array  of  the  hostile  squadrons  at 
Blenheim.  Thus,  with  each  returning  year,  Spring 
hangs  out  his  triumphant  banners.  May's  JEolian 
lyre  sings  of  his  victories  through  her  gorgeous  foli 
age  ;  and  the  shrill  trump  of  November  sounds  "  Mai- 
brook  "  through  her  leafless  branches. 

Twice  in  my  life  I  have  visited  the  magnificent  res 
idence,  —  not  as  a  guest ;  once  when  its  stately  porticos 
afforded  a  grateful  shelter  from  the  noonday  sun,  and 
again,  after  thirty  years'  interval,  when  the  light  of 
a  full  harvest  moon  slept  sweetly  on  the  bank  once 
shaded  by  fair  Rosamond's  bower,  —  so  says  tradition, 
—  and  poured  its  streaming  bars  of  silver  through  the 
branches  of  oaks  which  were  growing  before  Columbus 
discovered  America.  But  to  me,  at  noontide  or  in 
the  evening,  the  gorgeous  pile  was  as  dreary  as  death, 
its  luxurious  grounds  as  melancholy  as  a  churchyard. 
It  seemed  to  me,  not  a  splendid  palace,  but  a  dismal 
mausoleum,  in  which  a  great  and  blighted  name  lies 
embalmed  like  some  old  Egyptian  tyrant,  black  and 
ghastly  in  the  asphaltic  contempt  of  ages,  serving  but 
to  rescue  from  an  enviable  oblivion  the  career  and 
character  of  the  magnificent  peculator  and  miser  and 
traitor  to  whom  it  is  dedicated  ;  needy  in  the  midst  of 
his  ill-gotten  millions ;  mean  at  the  head  of  his  victo 
rious  armies :  despicable  under  the  shadow  of  his 


358  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

thick-woven  laurels  ;  and  poor  and  miserable  and  blind 
and  naked  amidst  the  lying  shams  of  his  tinsel  great 
ness.  The  eloquent  inscriptions  in  Latin  and  English 
as  I  strove  to  read  them  seemed  to  fade  from  arch 
and  column,  and  three  dreadful  words  of  palimpsestic 
infamy  came  out  in  their  stead,  like  those  which 
caused  the  knees  of  the  Chaldean  tyrant  to  smite  to 
gether,  as  he  beheld  them  traced  by  no  mortal  fingers 
on  the  vaulted  canopy  which  spread  like  a  sky  over 
his  accursed  revels ;  and  those  dreadful  words  were,  — 

Avarice,  Plunder,  Eternal  Shame  1 

There  is  a  modest  private  mansion  on  the  bank  of 
the  Potomac,  the  abode  of  George  Washington  and 
Martha  his  beloved,  his  loving,  faithful  wife.  It 
boasts  no  spacious  portal  nor  gorgeous  colonnade, 
nor  massy  elevation,  nor  storied  tower.  The  porter's 
lodge  at  Blenheim  Castle,  nay,  the  marble  dog-ken 
nels,  were  not  built  for  the  entire  cost  of  Mount  Ver- 
non.  No  arch  nor  column,  in  courtly  English  or 
courtlier  Latin,  sets  forth  the  deeds  and  the  worth  of 
the  Father  of  his  Country ;  he  needs  them  not  ,*  the 
unwritten  benedictions  of  millions  cover  all  the  walls. 
No  gilded  dome  swells  from  the  lowly  roof  to  catch 
the  morning  or  evening  beam ;  but  the  love  and  grati 
tude  of  united  America  settle  upon  it  in  one  eternal 
sunshine.  From  beneath  that  humble  roof  went  forth 
the  intrepid  and  unselfish  warrior,  —  the  magistrate 
who  knew  no  glory  but  his  country's  good  ;  to  that  he 
returned  happiest  when  his  work  was  done.  There 
he  lived  in  noble  simplicity ;  there  he  died  in  glory 
and  peace.  While  it  stands  the  latest  generations  of 
the  grateful  children  of  America  will  make  their  pil 
grimage  to  it  as  to  a  shrine ;  and  when  it  shall  fall,  if 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON.   359 

fall  it  must,  the  memory  and  the  name  of  Washington 
shall  shed  an  eternal  glory  on  the  spot. 

Yes,  my  friends,  it  is  the  pure  morality  of  Wash 
ington's  character  in  which  its  pecular  excellence  re 
sides  ;  and  it  is  this  which  establishes  its  intimate  rela 
tions  with  general  humanity.  On  this  basis  he  ceases 
to  be  the  hero  of  America,  and  becomes  the  hero  of 
mankind.  I  have  seen  it  lately  maintained  by  a  re* 
spectable  foreign  writer,  that  he  could  not  have  led 
the  mighty  host  which  Napoleon  marched  into  Russia 
in  1812 ;  not  so  much  one  army  as  thirteen  armies, 
each  led  by  its  veteran  chief,  some  of  them  by  tribu 
tary  kings,  and  all  conducted  to  their  destination 
across  continental  Europe  without  confusion  and 
without  mutual  interference,  by  the  master  mind,  the 
greatest  military  array  the  world  has  ever  seen.  That 
Washington,  who  never  proved  unequal  to  any  task, 
however  novel  or  arduous,  could  not  have  led  that 
gigantic  army  into  Russia  I  am  slow  to  believe.  I 
see  not  why  he  who  did  great  things  with  small  means 
is  to  be  supposed  to  be  incompetent  to  do  great  things 
with  large  means.  That  he  would  not,  if  it  depended 
on  him,  have  plunged  France  and  Europe  into  that 
dreadful  war,  I  readily  grant.  But  allowing  what 
cannot  be  shown,  that  he  was  not  as  a  strategist  equal 
to  the  task  in  question,  I  do  not  know  that  his  mili 
tary  reputation  is  more  impeached  by  this  gratuitous 
assumption,  that  he  could  not  have  got  that  mighty 
host  into  Russia,  than  Napoleon's  by  the  historical 
fact  that  he  could  not  and  did  not  get  it  out  of 
Russia. 

At  any  rate,  whatever  idle  comparisons  between 
Napoleon  and  Washington,  unfavorable  to  the  mili 
tary  genius  of  the  latter,  may  be  instituted,  Washing- 


860  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

ton  himself,  modest  as  he  was,  deriving  conscious 
strength  from  the  pure  patriotism  which  formed  the 
great  motive  of  his  conduct,  did  not  fear  to  place  him 
self  in  a  position  which  he  must  have  thought  would, 
hi  all  human  probability,  bring  him  into  collision 
with  the  youthful  conqueror  of  Italy,  fresh  from  the 
triumphs  of  his  first,  and,  all  things  considered,  his 
most  brilliant  campaigns.  The  United  States,  I  need 
not  remind  you,  were  on  the  verge  of  a  war  with 
France  in  1798.  The  command  of  the  armies  of  the 
Union  was  pressed  by  President  Adams  on  Washing 
ton,  and  he  consented  to  take  command  in  the  event 
of  an  invasion.  In  a  very  remarkable  letter  written 
in  July,  1798,  he  mentions  the  practice  "  adopted  by 
the  French  (with  whom  we  are  now  to  contend),  and 
with  great  and  astonishing  success,  to  appoint  generals 
of  juvenile  years  to  command  their  armies." l  He  had 
every  reason  at  that  time  to  suppose,  and  no  doubt  did 
suppose,  that  in  the  event  of  a  French  invasion,  the 
armies  of  France  would  have  been  commanded  by  the 
youngest  and  most  successful  of  those  youthful  gen 
erals. 

A  recent  judicious  French  writer  (M.  Edouard  La- 
boulaye),  though  greatly  admiring  the  character  of 
Washington,  denies  him  the  brilliant  military  genius 
of  Julius  Caesar.  For  my  own  part,  considering  the 
disparity  of  the  means  at  their  command  respectively 
and  of  their  scale  of  operations,  I  believe  that  after 
times  will,  on  the  score  of  military  capacity,  assign  as 
high  a  place  to  the  patriot  chieftain  who  founded  the 
Republic  of  America,  as  to  the  ambitious  usurper  who 
overturned  the  liberties  of  Rome.  Washington  would 
not  most  certainly  have  carried  an  unprovoked  and 
1  Washington's  Works,  vol.  xi.  p.  249. 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON.   361 

desolating  war  into  the  provinces  of  Gallia,  chopping 
off  the  right  hands  of  whole  populations  guilty  of  no 
crime  but  that  of  defending  their  homes ;  he  would 
not  have  thrown  his  legions  into  Britain  as  Caesar 
did,  though  the  barbarous  natives  had  never  heard  of 
his  name.  Though,  to  meet  the  invaders  of  his  coun 
try,  he  could  push  his  way  across  the  broad  Delaware, 
through  drifting  masses  of  ice  in  a  December  night, 
he  could  not,  I  grant,  in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  his 
country,  have  spurred  his  horse  across  the  "  little  Ru 
bicon  "  beneath  the  mild  skies  of  an  Ausonian  winter.1 
It  was  not  talent  which  he  wanted  for  brilliant  mili 
tary  achievement ;  he  wanted  a  willingness  to  shed 
the  blood  of  fellow-men  for  selfish  ends ;  he  wanted 
unchastened  ambition ;  he  wanted  an  ear  deaf  as  the 
adder's  to  the  cry  of  suffering  humanity ;  he  wanted 
a  remorseless  thirst  for  false  glory ;  he  wanted  an  iron 
heart. 

But  it  is  time,  my  friends,  to  draw  these  contem 
plations  to  a  close.  When  the  decease  of  this  illus 
trious  and  beloved  commander-in-chief,  in  1799,  was 
officially  announced  to  the  army  of  the  United  States 
by  General  Hamilton,  who  of  all  his  honored  and 
trusted  associates  stood  highest,  I  think,  in  his  affec 
tions  and  confidence,  it  was  truly  said  by  him  in  his 
general  orders,  that  "the  voice  of  praise  would  in 
vain  endeavor  to  exalt  a  name  unrivalled  in  the  lists 
of  true  glory."  It  is  for  us,  citizens  of  the  country 
which  he  lived  but  to  serve,  children  of  parents  who 
saw  him  face  to  face,  enjoying  ourselves  the  inestima 
ble  blessings  which  he  did  so  much  to  secure  and  per 
petuate,  to  reflect  lustre  upon  his  memory  in  the  only 
way  in  which  it  is  possible  for  us  to  do  so,  by  showing 
1  Ut  veutum  est  parvi  Rubicoutis  ad  uuda.ni.  —  Lucan,  i.  185. 


362  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

that  his  example  and  his  counsels,  instead  of  losing 
their  influence  by  the  lapse  of  years,  are  possessed  of 
an  ever-during  vitality.  Born  into  the  family  of  na 
tions  in  these  latter  days,  inheriting  from  ancient 
times  and  from  foreign  countries  the  bright  and  in, 
structive  example  of  all  their  honored  sons,  it  has  been 
the  privilege  of  America,  in  the  first  generation  of  her 
national  existence,  to  give  back  to  the  world  many 
names  whose  lustre  will  never  fade,  one  of  which  the 
whole  family  of  Christendom  is  willing  to  acknow 
ledge  the  preeminence  ;  a  name  of  which  neither 
Greece  nor  Rome,  nor  republican  Italy,  Switzerland 
nor  Holland,  nor  constitutional  England  can  boast  the 
rival.  "  A  character  of  virtues  so  happily  tempered 
by  one  another  "  (I  use  the  words  of  Charles  James 
Fox),  "  and  so  wholly  unalloyed  with  any  vices  as 
that  of  Washington,  is  hardly  to  be  found  on  the 
pages  of  history.'* 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  was  born  in  Portland, 
Maine,  February  27,  1807.  He  was  a  classmate  of  Haw 
thorne  at  Bowdoin  College,  graduating  there  in  the  class  of 
1825.  He  began  the  study  of  law  in  the  office  of  his  father, 
Hon.  Stephen  Longfellow ;  but  receiving  shortly  the  ap 
pointment  of  professor  of  modern  languages  at  Bowdoin, 
he  devoted  himself  after  that  to  literature,  and  to  teaching 
in  connection  with  literature.  Before  beginning  his  work 
at  Bowdoin  he  increased  his  qualifications  by  travel  and 
study  in  Europe,  where  he  stayed  three  years.  Upon  his 
return  he  gave  his  lectures  on  modern  languages  and  litera 
ture  at  the  college,  and  wrote  occasionally  for  the  North 
American  Review  and  other  periodicals.  The  first  volume 
which  he  published  was  an  Essay  on  the  Moral  and  Devo 
tional  Poetry  of  Spain,  accompanied  by  translations  from 
Spanish  verse.  This  was  issued  in  1833,  but  has  not  been 
kept  in  print  as  a  separate  work.  It  appears  as  a  chapter 
in  Outre-Mer,  a  reflection  of  his  European  life  and  travel, 
the  first  of  his  prose  writings.  In  1835  he  was  invited  to 
succeed  Mr.  George  Ticknor  as  professor  of  modern  lan 
guages  and  literature  at  Harvard  College,  and  again  went 
to  Europe  for  preparatory  study,  giving  especial  attention 
to  Switzerland  and  the  Scandinavian  countries.  He  held 
his  professorship  until  1854,  but  continued  to  live  in  Cam 
bridge  until  his  death,  March  24,  1882,  occupying  a  house 
known  from  a  former  occupant  as  the  Craigie  house,  and 


364      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

also  as  Washington's  headquarters,  that  general  having  so 
used  it  while  organizing  the  army  that  held  Boston  in  siege 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution.  Everett,  Sparks,  and 
Worcester,  the  lexicographer,  at  one  time  or  another  lived 
in  this  house,  and  here  Longfellow  wrote  most  of  his  works. 
In  1839  appeared  Hyperion,  a  Romance,  which,  with 
more  narrative  form  than  Outre-Mer,  like  that  gave  the 
results  of  a  poet's  entrance  into  the  riches  of  the  Old  World 
life.  In  the  same  year  was  published  Voices  of  the  Night, 
a  little  volume  containing  chiefly  poems  and  translations 
which  had  been  printed  separately  in  periodicals.  The 
Psalm  of  Life,  perhaps  the  best  known  of  Longfellow's 
short  poems,  was  in  this  volume,  and  here  too  were  The 
Beleaguered  City  and  Footsteps  of  Angels.  Ballads  and 
other  Poems  and  Poems  on  Slavery  appeared  in  1842; 
The  Spanish  Student,  a  play  in  three  acts,  in  1843 ;  The 
Belfry  of  Bruges  and  other  Poems  in  1846 ;  Evangeline 
in  1847 ;  Kavanagh,  a  Tale,  in  prose,  in  1849.  Besides 
the  various  volumes  comprising  short  poems,  the  list  of  Mr. 
Longfellow's  works  includes  The  Golden  Legend,  The  Song 
of  Hiawatha,  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  Tales  of 
a  Wayside  Inn,  The  New  England  Tragedies,  and  a  trans 
lation  of  Dante's  Divina  Commedia.  Mr.  Longfellow's 
literary  life  began  in  his  college  days,  and  he  wrote  poems 
almost  to  the  day  of  his  death.  A  classification  of  his  poems 
and  longer  works  would  be  an  interesting  task,  and  would 
help  to  disclose  the  wide  range  of  his  sympathy  and  taste ; 
a  collection  of  the  metres  which  he  has  used  would  show 
the  versatility  of  his  art,  and  similar  studies  would  lead  one 
to  discover  the  many  countries  and  ages  to  which  he  went 
for  subjects.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  gather  from  the 
volume  of  Longfellow's  poems  hints  of  personal  experience, 
that  biography  of  the  heart  which  is  of  more  worth  to  us 
than  any  record,  however  full,  of  external  change  and  adven 
ture.  Such  hints  may  be  found,  for  example,  in  the  early 
lines,  To  the  JRiver  Charles,  which  may  be  compared  with 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  865 

his  recent  Three  Friends  of  Mine,  rv.,  v. ;  in  A  Gleam  of 
Sunshine,  To  a  Child,  The  Day  is  Done,  The  Fire  of 
Driftwood,  Resignation,  The  Open  Window,  The  Ladder 
of  St.  Augustine,  My  Lost  Youth,  The  Children's  Hour, 
Weariness,  and  other  poems ;  not  that  we  are  to  take  all 
sentiments  and  statements  made  in  the  first  person  as  the 
poet's,  for  often  the  form  of  the  poem  is  so  far  dramatic 
that  the  poet  is  assuming  a  character  not  necessarily  his  own, 
but  the  recurrence  of  certain  strains,  joined  with  personal 
allusions,  helps  one  to  penetrate  the  slight  veil  with  which 
the  poet,  here  as  elsewhere,  half  conceals  and  half  reveals 
himself.  The  friendly  associations  of  the  poet  may  also  be 
discovered  in  several  poems  directly  addressed  to  persons  or 
distinctively  alluding  to  them,  and  the  reader  will  find  it 
pleasant  to  construct  the  companionship  of  the  poet  out  of 
such  poems  as  The  Herons  of  Elmwood,  To  Wittiam  E. 
Channing,  The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz,  To  Charles 
Sumner,  the  Prelude  to  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  Haw 
thorne,  and  other  poems.  An  interesting  study  of  Mr. 
Longfellow's  writings  will  be  found  in  a  paper  by  W.  IX 
Howells,  in  the  North  American  Review,  vol.  cir. 


EVANGELINE:  A  TALE  OF  ACADIE. 

HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTIOM. 

[THE  country  now  known  as  Nova  Scotia,  and  called 
formerly  Acadie  by  the  French,  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
French  and  English  by  turns  until  the  year  1713,  when,  by 
the  Peace  of  Utrecht,  it  was  ceded  by  France  to  Great  Brit 
ain,  and  has  ever  since  remained  in  the  possession  of  the 
English.  But  in  1713  the  inhabitants  of  the  peninsula  were 
mostly  French  farmers  and  fishermen,  living  about  Minas 
Basin  and  on  Annapolis  River,  and  the  English  government 
exercised  only  a  nominal  control  over  them.  It  was  not  till 
1749  that  the  English  themselves  began  to  make  settlements 
in  the  country,  and  that  year  they  laid  the  foundations  of 
the  town  of  Halifax.  A  jealousy  soon  sprang  up  between 
the  English  and  French  settlers,  which  was  deepened  by  the 
great  conflict  which  was  impending  between  the  two  mother 
countries ;  for  the  treaty  of  peace  at  Aix-la-Chapelle  in 
1748,  which  confirmed  the  English  title  to  Nova  Scotia,  waa 
scarcely  more  than  a  truce  between  the  two  powers  which 
had  been  struggling  for  ascendency  during  the  beginning 
of  the  century.  The  French  engaged  in  a  long  controversy 
with  the  English  respecting  the  boundaries  of  Acadie,  which 
had  been  defined  by  the  treaties  in  somewhat  general  terms, 
and  intrigues  were  carried  on  with  the  Indians,  who  were 
generally  in  sympathy  with  the  French,  for  the  annoyance 
of  the  English  settlers.  The  Acadians  were  allied  to  the 
French  by  blood  and  by  religion,  but  they  claimed  to  have 
the  rights  of  neutrals,  and  that  these  rights  had  been 


EVANGELINE.  867 

granted  to  them  by  previous  English  officers  of  the  crown. 
The  one  point  of  special  dispute  was  the  oath  of  allegiance 
demanded  of  the  Acadians  by  the  English.  This  they  re 
fused  to  take,  except  in  a  form  modified  to  excuse  them 
from  bearing  arms  against  the  French.  The  demand  was 
repeatedly  made,  and  evaded  with  constant  ingenuity  and 
persistency.  Most  of  the  Acadians  were  probably  simple- 
minded  and  peaceful  people,  who  desired  only  to  live  undis 
turbed  upon  their  farms  ;  but  there  were  some  restless  spir 
its,  especially  among  the  young  men,  who  compromised  the 
reputation  of  the  community,  and  all  were  very  much  under 
the  influence  of  their  priests,  some  of  whom  made  no  secret 
of  their  bitter  hostility  to  the  English,  and  of  their  deter 
mination  to  use  every  means  to  be  rid  of  them. 

As  the  English  interests  grew  and  the  critical  relations 
between  the  two  countries  approached  open  warfare,  the 
question  of  how  to  deal  with  the  Acadian  problem  became 
the  commanding  one  of  the  colony.  There  were  some  who 
coveted  the  rich  farms  of  the  Acadians ;  there  were  some 
who  were  inspired  by  religious  hatred  ;  but  the  prevailing 
spirit  was  one  of  fear  for  themselves  from  the  near  presence 
of  a  community  which,  calling  itself  neutral,  might  at  any 
time  offer  a  convenient  ground  for  hostile  attack.  Yet  to 
require  these  people  to  withdraw  to  Canada  or  Louisburg 
would  be  to  strengthen  the  hands  of  the  French,  and  make 
these  neutrals  determined  enemies.  The  colony  finally  re 
solved,  without  consulting  the  home  government,  to  remove 
the  Acadians  to  other  parts  of  North  America,  distributing 
them  through  the  colonies  in  such  a  way  as  to  preclude  any 
concert  amongst  the  scattered  families  by  which  they  should 
return  to  Acadia.  To  do  this  required  quick  and  secret 
preparations.  There  were  at  the  service  of  the  English 
governor  a  number  of  New  England  troops,  brought  thither 
for  the  capture  of  the  forts  lying  in  the  debatable  land  about 
the  head  of  the  Bay  of  Fundy.  These  were  under  the  com 
mand  of  Lieutenant-Colonel  John  Winslow,  of  Massachu- 


868      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

setts,  a  great-grandson  of  Governor  Edward  Winslow,  of 
Plymouth,  and  to  this  gentleman  and  Captain  Alexander 
Murray  was  intrusted  the  task  of  removal.  They  were  in 
structed  to  use  stratagem,  if  possible,  to  bring  together  the 
various  families,  but  to  prevent  any  from  escaping  to  the 
woods.  On  the  2d  of  September,  1755,  Winslow  issued  a 
written  order,  addressed  to  the  inhabitants  of  Grand-Pre", 
Minas,  River  Canard,  etc.,  "  as  well  ancient  as  young  men 
and  lads,"  —  a  proclamation  summoning  all  the  males  to 
attend  him  in  the  church  at  Grand-Pre"  on  the  5th  instant, 
to  hear  a  communication  which  the  governor  had  sent.  As 
there  had  been  negotiations  respecting  the  oath  of  allegiance, 
and  much  discussion  as  to  the  withdrawal  of  the  Acadians 
from  the  country,  though  none  as  to  their  removal  and  dis 
persal,  it  was  understood  that  this  was  an  important  meet 
ing,  and  upon  the  day  named  four  hundred  and  eighteen 
men  and  boys  assembled  in  the  church.  Winslow,  attended 
by  his  officers  and  men,  caused  a  guard  to  be  placed  round 
the  church,  and  then  announced  to  the  people  his  majesty's 
decision  that  they  were  to  be  removed  with  their  families 
out  of  the  country.  The  church  became  at  once  a  guard 
house,  and  all  the  prisoners  were  under  strict  surveillance. 
At  the  same  time  similar  plans  had  been  carried  out  at  Pisi- 
quid  under  Captain  Murray,  and  less  successfully  at  Chig- 
necto.  Meanwhile  there  were  whispers  of  a  rising  among 
the  prisoners,  and  although  the  transports  which  had  been 
ordered  from  Boston  had  not  yet  arrived,  it  was  determined 
to  make  use  of  the  vessels  which  had  conveyed  the  troops, 
and  remove  the  men  to  these  for  safer  keeping.  This  was 
done  on  the  10th  of  September,  and  the  men  remained  on 
the  vessels  in  the  harbor  until  the  arrival  of  the  transports, 
when  these  were  made  use  of,  and  about  three  thousand 
souls  sent  out  of  the  country  to  North  Carolina,  Virginia, 
Maryland,  Pennsylvania,  New  York,  Connecticut,  and  Mas 
sachusetts.  In  the  haste  and  confusion  of  sending  them  off, 
—  a  haste  which  was  increased  by  the  anxiety  of  the  offi- 


EVANGELINE.  869 

cers  to  be  rid  of  the  distasteful  business,  and  a  confusion 
which  was  greater  from  the  difference  of  tongues,  —  many 
families  were  separated,  and  some  at  least  never  came  to 
gether  again. 

The  story  of  Evangeline  is  the  story  of  such  a  separation. 
The  removal  of  the  Acadians  was  a  blot  upon  the  govern 
ment  of  Nova  Scotia  and  upon  that  of  Great  Britain,  which 
never  disowned  the  deed,  although  it  was  probably  done 
without  direct  permission  or  command  from  England.  It 
proved  to  be  unnecessary,  but  it  must  also  be  remembered 
that  to  many  men  at  that  time  the  English  power  seemed 
trembling  before  France,  and  that  the  colony  at  Halifax 
regarded  the  act  as  one  of  self-preservation. 

The  authorities  for  an  historical  inquiry  into  this  subject 
are  best  seen  in  a  volume  published  by  the  government  of 
Nova  Scotia  at  Halifax  in  1869,  entitled  Selections  fror.* 
the  Public  Documents  of  the  Province  of  Nova  Scotia, 
edited  by  Thomas  B.  Akins,  D.  C.  L.,  Commissioner  of 
Public  Records  ;  and  in  a  manuscript  journal  kept  by  Col 
onel  Winslow,  now  in  the  cabinet  of  the  Massachusetts  His 
torical  Society  in  Boston.  At  the  State  House  in  Boston 
are  two  volumes  of  records,  entitled  French  Neutrals,  which 
contain  voluminous  papers  relating  to  the  treatment  of  the 
Acadians  who  were  sent  to  Massachusetts.  Probably  the 
work  used  by  the  poet  in  writing  Evangeline  was  An  His~ 
torical  and  Statistical  Account  of  Nova  Scotia,  by  Thomas 
C.  Haliburton,  who  is  best  known  as  the  author  of  The  Clock- 
Maker,  or  The  Sayings  and  Doings  of  Samuel  Slick  of 
Slickville,  a  book  which,  written  apparently  to  prick  the 
Nova  Scotians  into  more  enterprise,  was  for  a  long  while  the 
chief  representative  of  Yankee  smartness.  Judge  Halibur- 
ton's  history  was  published  in  1829.  A  later  history,  which 
takes  advantage  more  freely  of  historical  documents,  is  A 
History  of  Nova  Scotia,  or  Acadie,  by  Beamish  Murdock, 
Esq.,  Q.  C.,  Halifax,  1866.  Still  more  recent  is  a  smaller, 
well-written  work,  entitled  The  History  of  Acadiafrom  its 


370      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

First  Discovery  to  its  Surrender  to  England  by  the  Treaty 
of  Paris,  by  James  Hannay,  St.  John,  N.  B.,  1879.  W.  J. 
Anderson  published  a  paper  in  the  Transactions  of  the  Lit 
erary  and  Historical  Society  of  Quebec,  New  Series,  part  7, 
1870,  entitled  Evangeline  and  the  Archives  of  Nova  Sco 
tia,  in  which  he  examines  the  poem  by  the  light  of  the  vol 
ume  of  Nova  Scotia  Archives,  edited  by  T.  B.  Akins.  The 
sketches  of  travellers  in  Nova  Scotia,  as  Acadia,  or  a  Month 
among  the  Blue  Noses,  by  F.  S.  Cozzens,  and  Baddeck,  by 
C.  D.  Warner,  give  the  present  appearance  of  the  country 
and  inhabitants. 

The  measure  of  Evangeline  is  what  is  commonly  known 
as  English  dactylic  hexameter.  The  hexameter  is  the  mea 
sure  used  by  Homer  in  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  and  by 
Virgil  in  the  &neid,  but  the  difference  between  the  Eng 
lish  language  and  the  Latin  or  Greek  is  so  great,  especially 
when  we  consider  that  in  English  poetry  every  word  must 
be  accented  according  to  its  customary  pronounciation, 
while  in  scanning  Greek  and  Latin  verse  accent  follows  the 
quantity  of  the  vowels,  that  in  applying  this  term  of  hexa 
meter  to  Evangeline  it  must  not  be  supposed  by  the  reader 
that  he  is  getting  the  effect  of  Greek  hexameters.  It  is  the 
Greek  hexameter  translated  into  English  use,  and  some 
have  maintained  that  the  verse  of  the  Iliad  is  better  repre 
sented  in  the  English  by  the  trochaic  measure  of  fifteen  syl 
lables,  of  which  an  excellent  illustration  is  in  Tennyson's 
Locksley  Hatt  ;  others  have  compared  the  Greek  hexameter 
to  the  ballad  metre  of  fourteen  syllables,  used  notably  by 
Chapman  in  his  translation  of  Homer's  Iliad.  The  mea 
sure  adopted  by  Mr.  Longfellow  has  never  become  very 
popular  in  English  poetry,  but  has  repeatedly  been  at 
tempted  by  other  poets.  The  reader  will  find  the  subject 
of  hexameters  discussed  by  Matthew  Arnold  in  his  lectures 
On  Translating  Homer ;  by  James  Spedding  in  English 
Hexameters,  in  his  recent  volume,  Reviews  and  Discus 
sions,  Literary,  Political  and  Historical,  not  relating  to 


EVANGELINE.  871 

Bacon  ;  and  by  John  Stuart  Blackie  in  Remarks  on  Eng 
lish  Hexameters,  contained  in  his  volume  Horce  Hette- 
nicce. 

The  measure  lends  itself  easily  to  the  lingering  melan 
choly  which  marks  the  greater  part  of  the  poem,  and  the 
poet's  fine  sense  of  harmony  between  subject  and  form  is 
rarely  better  shown  than  in  this  poem.  The  fall  of  the 
verse  at  the  end  of  the  line  and  the  sharp  recovery  at  the 
beginning  of  the  next  will  be  snares  to  the  reader,  who 
must  beware  of  a  jerking  style  of  delivery.  The  voice  nat 
urally  seeks  a  rest  in  the  middle  of  the  line,  and  this  rest, 
or  caesural  pause,  should  be  carefully  regarded ;  a  little 
practice  will  enable  one  to  acquire  that  habit  of  reading  the 
hexameter,  which  we  may  liken,  roughly,  to  the  climbing  of 
a  hill,  resting  a  moment  on  the  summit,  and  then  descend 
ing  the  other  side.  The  charm  in  reading  Evangeline 
aloud,  after  a  clear  understanding  of  the  sense,  which  is  the 
essential  in  all  good  reading,  is  found  in  this  gentle  labor  of 
the  former  half  of  the  line,  and  gentle  acceleration  of  the 
latter  half.] 

THIS  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  murmuring  pines 
and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indistinct 
in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and  pro 
phetic, 

1.  A  primeval  forest  is,  strictly  speaking,  one  which  has  never 
been  disturbed  by  the  axe. 

3.  Druids  were  priests  of  the  Celtic  inhabitants  of  ancient 
Gaul  and  Britain.  The  name  was  probably  of  Celtic  origin,  but 
its  form  may  have  been  determined  by  the  Greek  word  drus,  an 
oak,  since  their  places  of  worship  were  consecrated  groves  of 
oak.  Perhaps  the  choice  of  the  image  was  governed  by  the 
analogy  of  a  religion  and  tribe  that  were  to  disappear  before  a 
stronger  power. 


372      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on  their 
bosoms. 

Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced  neigh 
boring  ocean  5 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail 
of  the  forest. 

•«  This  is  the  forest  primeval;  but  where  are  the 
hearts  that  beneath  it 

Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  woodland 
the  voice  of  the  huntsman  ? 

Where  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the  home  of  Aca 
dian  farmers,  — 

Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that  water  the 
woodlands,  10 

Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  reflecting  an  image 
of  heaven  ? 

Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the  farmers  for 
ever  departed ! 

Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the  mighty  blasts 
of  October 

Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and  sprinkle  them 
far  o'er  the  ocean. 

Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beautiful  village 
of  Grand-Pre.  is 

Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes,  and  endures, 
and  is  patient, 

4.  A  poetical  description  of  an  ancient  harper  will  be  found 
in  the  Introduction  to  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott. 

8.  Observe  how  the  tragedy  of  the  story  is  anticipated  by  this 
picture  of  the  startled  roe. 


EVANGELINE.  373 

Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of  woman's 

devotion, 
List  to  the  mournful  tradition  still  sung  by  the  pines 

of  the  forest ; 
List  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home  of  the  happy. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 

I. 

IN  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin  of 

Minas,  20 

Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand-Pre 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.     Vast  meadows  stretched 

to  the  eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks 

without  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised  with 

labor  incessant, 

19.  In  the  earliest  records  Acadie  is  called  Cadie  ;  it  after 
wards  was  called  Arcadia,  Accadia,  or  L' Acadie.  The  name  is 
probably  a  French  adaptation  of  a  word  common  among  the 
Micmac  Indians  living  there,  signifying  place  or  region,  and  used 
as  an  affix  to  other  words  as  indicating  the  place  where  various 
things,  as  cranberries,  eels,  seals,  were  found  in  abundance.  The 
French  turned  this  Indian  term  into  Cadie  or  Acadie  ;  the  Eng 
lish  into  Quoddy,  in  which  form  it  remains  when  applied  to  the 
Quoddy  Indians,  to  Quoddy  Head,  the  last  point  of  the  United 
States  next  to  Acadia,  and  in  the  compound  Passamaquoddy,  or 
Pollock-Ground. 

21.  Compare,  for  effect,  the  first  line  of  Goldsmith's  The 
Traveller.  Grand-Pre"  will  be  found  on  the  map  as  part  of  the 
township  of  Horton. 

24.  The  people  of  Acadia  are  mainly  the  descendants  of  the 
colonists  who  were  brought  out  to  La  Have  and  Port  Royal  by 
Isaac  de  Razilly  and  Charnisay  between  the  years  1633  and  1638. 


374      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides ;  but  at  stated  seasons  the 

flood-gates  M 

Opened  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will  o'er 

the  meadows. 
West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and  orchards 

and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unf enced  o'er  the  plain ;  and  away 

to  the  northward 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on  the 

mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the  mighty 

Atlantic  30 

Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from  their  sta 
tion  descended. 
There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed  the  Acadian 

village. 
Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of  oak  and 

of  hemlock, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the  reign 

of  the  Henries. 

These  colonists  came  from  Rochelle,  Saintonge,  and  Poitou,  so 
that  they  were  drawn  from  a  very  limited  area  on  the  west  coast 
of  France,  covered  by  the  modern  departments  of  Vende'e  and 
Charente  Infe'rieure.  This  circumstance  had  some  influence  on 
their  mode  of  settling  the  lands  of  Acadia,  for  they  came  from  a 
country  of  marshes,  where  the  sea  was  kept  out  by  artificial 
dikes,  and  they  found  in  Acadia  similar  marshes,  which  they  dealt 
with  in  the  same  way  that  they  had  been  accustomed  to  practise 
in  France.  Hannay's  History  of  A  cadla,  pp.  282,  283.  An  excel 
lent  account  of  dikes  and  the  flooding  of  lowlands,  as  practised 
in  Holland,  may  be  found  in  A  Farmer's  Vacation,  by  George  E. 
Waring,  Jr. 

29.  Bldmirfon  is  a  mountainous  headland  of  red  sandstone,  sur 
mounted  by  a  perpendicular  wall  of  basaltic  trap,  the  whole  about 
four  hundred  feet  in  height,  at  the  entrance  of  the  Basin  of 

Minim. 


E  VA  NGELINE.  375 

Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-windows;  and 
gables  projecting  » 

Over  the  basement  below  protected  and  shaded  the 
doorway. 

There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer,  when 
brightly  the  sunset 

Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the  vanes  on  the 
chimneys, 

Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white  caps  and  in 
kirtles 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spinning  the 
golden  <o 

Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy  shuttles 
within  doors 

Mingled  their  sound  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels  and 
the  songs  of  the  maidens. 

Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest,  and 
the  children 

Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extended  to 
bless  them. 

Reverend  walked  he  among  them ;  and  up  rose  ma 
trons  and  maidens,  «* 

Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affectionate 
welcome. 

Then  came  the  laborers  home  from  the  field,  and  se 
renely  the  sun  sank 

36.  The  characteristics  of  a  Normandy  village  may  be  further 
learned  by  reference  to  a  pleasant  little  sketch-book,  published 
a  few  years  since,  called  Normandy  Picturesque,  by  Henry  Black 
burn,  and  to  Through  Nvrmandy,  by  Katharine  S.  Macquoid. 

39.  The  term  kirtle  was  sometimes  applied  to  the  jacket  only, 
sometimes  to  the  train  or  upper  petticoat  attached  to  it.  A  full 
kirtle  was  always  both  ;  a  half  kirtle  was  a  term  applied  to 
either.  A  man's  jacket  was  sometimes  called  a  kirtle  ;  here  the 
reference  is  apparently  to  the  full  kirtle  worn  by  women. 


376      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed.     Anon  from 

the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs  of  the 

village 
Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  incense 

ascending,  so 

Rose  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace  and 

contentment. 
Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these   simple  Acadian 

farmers,  — 
Dwelt  in  the  love  of  God  and  of  man.     Alike  were 

they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the  vice 

of  republics. 
Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars  to  their 

windows ;  M 

But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and  the  hearts 

of  the  owners ; 
There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived  in 

abundance. 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  village,  and  nearer  the 

Basin  of  Minas, 
Benedict    Bellefontaine,    the    wealthiest    farmer    of 

Grand-Pre, 
Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres ;  and  with  him,  directing 

his  household,  «o 

Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the  pride  of 

the  village. 

49.  Angelus  Domini  is  the  full  name  given  to  the  bell  which,  at 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  called  the  people  to  prayer,  in  com 
memoration  of  the  visit  of  the  angel  of  the  Lord  to  the  Virgin 
Mary.  It  was  introduced  into  France  in  its  modern  form  in  the 
sixteenth  century. 


EVANGELINE.  377 

Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of  seventy 

winters ; 
Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered  with 

snow-flakes ; 
White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cheeks  as 

brown  as  the  oak-leaves. 

Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen  sum 
mers  ;  es 
Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows  on  the 

thorn  by  the  wayside, 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the  brown 

shade  of  her  tresses ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that  feed 

in  the  meadows. 
When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers  at 

noontide 
Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah !  fair  in  sooth  was  the 

maiden.  70 

Fairer  was  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the  bell 

from  its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest  with 

his  hyssop 
Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  blessings  upon 

them, 
Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chaplet  of 

beads  and  her  missal, 
Wearing  her  Norman  cap  and  her  kirtle  of  blue,  and 

the  ear-rings  75 

Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and  since,  as 

an  heirloom, 

Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through  long  gen 
erations. 

But  a  celestial  brightness  —  a  more  ethereal  beauty  — 
Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form,  when,  after 

confession, 


378      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's  benedic 
tion  upon  her.  si 

When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing  of 
exquisite  music. 

Firmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the  house  of 

the  farmer 
Stood  on  the  side  of  a  hill  commanding  the  sea ;  and 

a  shady 
Sycamore  grew  by  the  door,  with  a  woodbine  wreath- 

ing  around  it. 
Rudely  carved  was  the  porch,  with  seats  beneath  ;  and 

a  footpath  ss 

Led  through  an  orchard  wide,  and  disappeared  in  the 

meadow. 
Under  the  sycamore-tree  were  hives  overhung  by  a 

penthouse, 
Such  as  the  traveller  sees  in  regions  remote  by  the 

roadside, 
Built  o'er  a  box  for  the  poor,  or  the  blessed  image  of 

Mary. 
Farther  down,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was  the  well 

with  its  moss-grown  a* 

Bucket,  fastened  with  iron,  and  near  it  a  trough  for 

the  horses. 
Shielding  the  house  from  storms,  on  the  north,  were 

the  barns  and  the  farm-yard ; 
There  stood  the  broad-wheeled  wains  and  the  antique 

ploughs  and  the  harrows ; 
There  were  the  folds  for  the  sheep ;  and  there,  in  his 

feathered  seraglio, 

93.  The  accent  is  on  the  first  syllable  of  antique,  where  it  re 
mains  in  the  form  antic,  which  once  had  the  same  general  mean 
ing. 


EVANGELINE.  379 

Strutted  the  lordly  turkey,  and  crowed  the  cock,  with 
the  selfsame  95 

Voice  that  in  ages  of  old  had  startled  the  penitent 
Peter. 

Bursting  with  hay  were  the  barns,  themselves  a  vil 
lage.  In  each  one 

Far  o'er  the  gal  le  projected  a  roof  of  thatch ;  and  a 
staircase, 

Under  the  sheltering  eaves,  led  up  to  the  odorous  corn- 
loft. 

There  too  the  dove-cot  stood,  with  its  meek  and  inno 
cent  inmates  io» 

Murmuring  ever  of  love ;  while  above  in  the  variant 
breezes 

Numberless  noisy  weathercocks  rattled  and  sang  of 
mutation. 

Thus,  at  peace  with  God  and  the  world,  the  farmer 

of  Grand-Pre* 
Lived  on  his  sunny  farm,  and  Evangeline  governed 

his  household. 
Many  a  youth,  as  he  knelt  in  the  church  and  opened 

his  missal,  its 

Fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  as  the  saint  of  his  deepest 

devotion ; 

99.  Odorous.  The  accent  here,  as  well  as  in  line  403,  is  npon 
the  first  syllable,  where  it  is  commonly  placed  ;  but  Milton,  who 
of  all  poets  had  the  most  refined  ear,  writes 

"  So  from  the  root 

Springs  lighter  the  green  stalk,  from  thence  the  leaves 
More  airy,  last  the  bright  consummate  flower 
Spirits  odorous  breathes." 

Par.  Loit,  Book  V.,  lines  479-48*. 

But  he  also  uses  the  more  familiar  accent  in  other  passages, 
as,  "  An  amber  scent  of  ddorous  perfume,"  in  Samson  Agonigtet, 
line  720. 


380      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Happy  was  he  who  might  touch  her  hand  or  the  hem 
of  her  garment ! 

Many  a  suitor  came  to  her  door,  by  the  darkness  be 
friended, 

And,  as  he  knocked  and  waited  to  hear  the  sound  of 
her  footsteps, 

Knew  not  which  beat  the  louder,  his  heart  or  the 
knocker  of  iron ;  110 

Or,  at  the  joyous  feast  of  the  Patron  Saint  of  the  vil 
lage, 

Bolder  grew,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  the  dance  as  he 
whispered 

Hurried  words  of  love,  that  seemed  a  part  of  the 
music. 

But  among  all  who  came  young  Gabriel  only  was 
welcome ; 

Gabriel    Lajeunesse,  the    son   of   Basil  the    black 
smith,  m 

Who  was  a  mighty  man  in  the  village,  and  honored 
of  all  men ; 

For  since  the  birth  of  time,  throughout  all  ages  and 
nations, 

Has  the  craft  of  the  smith  been  held  in  repute  by  the 
people. 

Basil  was   Benedict's   friend.      Their  children  from 
earliest  childhood 

Grew  up  together  as  brother  and  sister ;  and  Father 
Felician,  120 

Priest  and  pedagogue  both  in  the  village,  had  taught 
them  their  letters 

\»Jut  of  the  selfsame  book,  with  the  hymns  of  the 

church  and  the  plain-song. 
(22.  The  plain-song  is  a  monotonic  recitative  of  the  collects. 


EVANGELINE.  381 

But  when  the  hymn  was  sung,  and  the  daily  lesson 

completed, 
Swiftly  they  hurried  away  to  the  forge  of  Basil  the 

blacksmith. 
There  at  the  door  they  stood,  with  wondering  eyes  to 

behold  him  135 

Take  in  his  leathern  lap  the  hoof  of  the  horse  as  a 

plaything, 
Nailing  the  shoe  in  its  place  ;  while  near  him  the  tire 

of  the  cart-wheel 
Lay  like  a  fiery  snake,  coiled  round  in  a  circle  of 

cinders. 
Oft  on  autumnal  eves,  when  without  in  the  gathering 

darkness 
Bursting  with  light  seemed  the  smithy,  through  every 

cranny  and  crevice,  iso 

Warm  by  the  forge  within  they  watched  the  laboring 

bellows, 
And  as  its  panting  ceased,  and  the  sparks  expired  in 

the  ashes, 
Merrily  laughed,  and  said  they  were  nuns  going  into 

the  chapel. 
Oft  on  sledges  in  winter,  as  swift  as  the  swoop  of  the 

eagle, 
Down  the  hillside  bounding,  they  glided  away  o'er  the 

meadow.  135 

Oft  in  the  barns  they  climbed  to  the  populous  nests 

on  the  rafters, 
Seeking  with  eager  eyes  that  wondrous  stone,  which 

the  swallow 
Brings  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  to  restore  the  sight 

of  its  fledglings ; 

133.  The  French  have  another  saying  similar  to  this,  that  they 
were  guests  going  into  the  wedding. 


882      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Lucky  was  he  who  found  that  stone  in  the  nest  of  the 

swallow ! 
Thus  passed  a  few  swift  years,  and  they  no  longer 

were  children.  uo 

He  was  a  valiant  youth,  and  his  face,  like  the  face  of 

the  morning, 
gladdened    the  earth   with    its  light,   and    ripened 

thought  into  action. 
She  was  a  woman  now,  with  the  heart  and  hopes  of  a 

woman. 
*'  Sunshine  of  Saint  Eulalie  "  was  she  called ;  for  that 

was  the  sunshine 
Which,  as   the   farmers   believed,  would   load   their 

orchards  with  apples  ;  i« 

She  too  would  bring  to  her  husband's  house  delight 

and  abundance, 
Filling  it  full  of  love  and  the  ruddy  faces  of  children. 

II. 

Now  had  the  season  returned,  when  the  nights  grow 

colder  and  longer, 

And  the  retreating  sun  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion  en 
ters. 

139.  In  Pluquet'a  Contes  Populaires  we  are  told  that  if  one  of 
a  swallow's  young  is  blind  the  mother  bird  seeks  on  the  shore  of 
the  ocean  a  little  stone,  with  which  she  restores  its  sight  ;  and 
he  adds,  "  He  who  is  fortunate  enough  to  find  that  stone  in  a 
swallow's  nest  holds  a  wonderful  remedy."  Pluquet's  book 
treats  of  Norman  superstitions  and  popular  traits. 

144.  1'luquet  also  gives  this  proverbial  saying  :  — 

"  Si  le  soleil  rit  le  jour  Sainte-Eulalie, 
n  y  aura  pommes  et  cidre  4  folie." 

(If  the  sun  smiles  on  Saint  Eulalie's  day,  there  will  be  plenty 
of  apples,  and  cider  enough.) 

fiaint  Eulalie's  day  is  the  12th  of  February. 


EVANGELINE.  383 

Birds  of  passage  sailed  through  the  leaden  air,  from 
the  ice-bound,  IM 

Desolate  northern  bays  to  the  shores  of  tropical  is 
lands. 

Harvests  were  gathered  in  ;  and  wild  with  the  winds 
of  September 

Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob  of  old  with 
the  angel. 

All  the  signs  foretold  a  winter  long  and  inclement. 

Bees,  with  prophetic  instinct  of  want,  had  hoarded 
their  honey  i» 

Till  the  hives  overflowed ;  and  the  Indian  hunters  as 
serted 

Cold  would  the  winter  be,  for  thick  was  the  fur  of  the 
foxes. 

Such  was  the  advent  of  autumn.  Then  followed  that 
beautiful  season, 

Called  by  the  pious  Acadian  peasants  the  Summer  of 
All-Saints ! 

Filled  was  the  air  with  a  dreamy  and  magical  light ; 
and  the  landscape  i» 

Lay  as  if  new-created  in  all  the  freshness  of  child 
hood. 

Peace  seemed  to  reign  upon  earth,  and  the  restless 
heart  of  the  ocean 

Was  for  a  moment  consoled.  All  sounds  were  in 
harmony  blended. 

Voices  of  children  at  play,  the  crowing  of  cocks  in  the 
farm-yards, 

169.  The  Summer  of  All-Saints  is  oar  Indian  Summer,  All- 
Saints  Day  being  November  1st.  The  French  also  give  this  sea 
son  the  name  of  Saint  Martin's  Summer,  Saint  Martin's  Day 
being  November  llth. 


384      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Whir  of  wings  in  the  drowsy  air,  and  the  cooing  of 
pigeons,  IK 

All  were  subdued  and  low  as  the  murmurs  of  love, 
and  the  great  sun 

Looked  with  the  eye  of  love  through  the  golden  va 
pors  around  him ; 

While  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and  scarlet  and 
yellow, 

Bright  with  the  sheen  of  the  dew,  each  glittering  tree 
of  the  forest 

Flashed  like  the  plane-tree  the  Persian  adorned  with 
mantles  and  jewels.  no 

Now  recommenced  the  region  of  rest  and  affection 
and  stillness. 

Day  with  its  burden  and  heat  had  departed,  and  twi 
light  descending 

Brought  back  the  evening  star  to  the  sky,  and  the 
herds  to  the  homestead. 

Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting  their  necks 
on  each  other, 

And  with  their  nostrils  distended  inhaling  the  fresh 
ness  of  evening.  m 

Foremost,  bearing  the  bell,  Evangeline's  beautiful 
heifer, 

Proud  of  her  snow-white  hide,  and  the  ribbon  that 
waved  from  her  collar, 

Quietly  paced  and  slow,  as  if  conscious  of  human 
affection. 

170.  Herodotus,  in  his  account  of  Xerxes'  expedition  against 
Greece,  tells  of  a  beautiful  plane-tree  which  Xerxes  found,  and 
was  so  enamored  with  that  he  dressed  it  as  one  might  a  woman, 
and  placed  it  under  the  care  of  a  guardsman  (vii.  31).  Another 
writer,  .<Elian,  improving  on  this,  says  he  adorned  it  with  a  neck 
lace  and  bracelets. 


EVANGELINE.  385 

Then  came  the  shepherd  back  with  his  hleating  flocks 
from  the  seaside, 

Where  was  their  favorite  pasture.  Behind  them  fol 
lowed  the  watch-dog,  is« 

Patient,  full  of  importance,  and  grand  in  the  pride  of 
his  instinct, 

Walking  from  side  to  side  with  a  lordly  air,  and 
superbly 

Waving  his  bushy  tail,  and  urging  forward  the  strag 
glers; 

Regent  of  flocks  was  he  when  the  shepherd  slept; 
their  protector, 

When  from  the  forest  at  night,  through  the  starry 
silence,  the  wolves  howled.  iss 

Late,  with  the  rising  moon,  returned  the  wains  from 
the  marshes, 

Laden  with  briny  hay,  that  filled  the  air  with  its  odor. 

Cheerily  neighed  the  steeds,  with  dew  on  their  manes 
and  their  fetlocks, 

While  aloft  on  their  shoulders  the  wooden  and  pon 
derous  saddles, 

Painted  with  brilliant  dyes,  and  adorned  with  tassels 
of  crimson,  190 

Nodded  in  bright  array,  like  hollyhocks  heavy  with 
blossoms. 

Patiently  stood  the  cows  meanwhile,  and  yielded  their 
udders 

Unto  the  milkmaid's  hand ;  whilst  loud  and  in  regular 
cadence 

193.  There  is  a  charming  milkmaid's  song  in  Tennyson's  drama 
of  Queen  Mary,  Act  III.,  Scene  5,  where  the  streaming  of  the 
milk  into  the  sounding  pails  is  caught  in  the  tinkling  k's  of  such 

lines  as 

"And  you  came  and  kissed  me,  milking  the  cow." 


386      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Into  the  sounding  pails  the  foaming  streamlets  de 
scended. 

Lowing  of  cattle  and  peals  of  laughter  were  heard  in 
the  farm-yard,  tat 

Echoed  back  by  the  barns.  Anon  they  sank  into 
stillness ; 

Heavily  closed,  with  a  jarring  sound,  the  valves  of  the 
barn-doors, 

Battled  the  wooden  bars,  and  all  for  a  season  was  silent. 

In-doors,  warm  by  the  wide-mouthed  fireplace,  idly 
the  farmer 

Sat  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  watched  how  the  flames 
and  the  smoke-wreaths  200 

Struggled  together  like  foes  hi  a  burning  city.  Be 
hind  him, 

Nodding  and  mocking  along  the  wall  with  gestures 
fantastic, 

Darted  his  own  huge  shadow,  and  vanished  away  into 
darkness. 

Faces,  clumsily  carved  in  oak,  on  the  back  of  his  arm 
chair 

Laughed  in  the  flickering  light,  and  the  pewter  plates 
on  the  dresser  205 

Caught  and  reflected  the  flame,  as  shields  of  armies 
the  sunshine. 

Fragments  of  song  the  old  man  sang,  and  carols  of 
Christmas, 

Such  as  at  home,  in  the  olden  time,  his  fathers  before 
him 

Sang  in  their  Norman  orchards  and  bright  Burgundian 
vineyards. 

Close  at  her  father's  side  was  the  gentle  Evangeline 
seated,  210 


EVANGELINE.  887 

Spinning  flax  for  the  loom  that  stood  in  the  corner 

behind  her. 
Silent  awhile  were  its  treadles,  at  rest  was  its  diligent 

shuttle, 
While  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  wheel,  like  the 

drone  of  a  bagpipe, 
Followed  the  old  man's  song,  and  united  the  fragments 

together. 

As  in  a  church,  when  the  chant  of  the  choir  at  inter 
vals  ceases,  as 
Footfalls  are  heard  in  the  aisles,  or  words  of  the  priest 

at  the  altar, 
So,  in  each  pause  of  the  song,  with  measured  motion 

the  clock  clicked. 

Thus  as  they  sat,  there  were  footsteps  heard,  and, 

suddenly  lifted, 
Sounded  the  wooden  latch,  and  the  door  swung  back 

on  its  hinges. 
Benedict  knew  by  the  hob-nailed  shoes  it  was  Basil 

the  blacksmith,  220 

And  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew  who  was 

with  him. 
"  Welcome !  "  the  farmer  exclaimed,  as  their  footsteps 

paused  on  the  threshold, 
u  Welcome,  Basil,  my  friend !  Come,  take  thy  place 

on  the  settle 
Close   by  the  chimney-side,  which  is  always  empty 

without  thee ; 
Take  from  the  shelf  overhead  thy  pipe  and  the  box  of 

tobacco ;  225 

Never  so  much  thyself  art  thou  as  when,  through  the 

curling 
Smoke  of  the  pipe  or  the  forge,  thy  friendly  and  jovial 

face  gleams 


388      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Bound  and  red  as  the  harvest  moon  through  the  mist 

of  the  marshes." 
Then,  with  a  smile  of  content,  thus  answered  Basil  the 

blacksmith, 

Taking  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat  by  the  fire 
side  :  —  wo 
"  Benedict  Bellefontaine,  thou  hast  ever  thy  jest  and 

thy  ballad ! 
Ever  in  cheerf ullest  mood  art  thou,  when  others  are 

filled  with 
Gloomy  forebodings  of  ill,  and  see  only  ruin  before 

them. 
Happy  art  thou,  as  if  every  day  thou  hadst  picked  up 

a  horseshoe." 
Pausing  a  moment,  to  take  the  pipe  that  Evangeline 

brought  him,  235 

And  with  a  coal  from  the  embers  had  lighted,  he 

slowly  continued :  — 
"  Four  days  now  are  passed  since  the  English  ships 

at  their  anchors 
Ride  in  the  Gaspereau's  mouth,  with  their  cannon 

pointed  against  us. 
What  their  design  may  be  is  unknown ;  but  all  are 

commanded 
On  the  morrow  to  meet  in  the   church,  where   his 

Majesty's  mandate  2« 

Will  be  proclaimed  as  law  in  the  land.     Alas  1  in  the 

mean  time 
Many  surmises  of  evil  alarm  the  hearts  of  the  pec 

pie." 
Then   made   answer  the   farmer :  — "  Perhaps   some 

friendlier  purpose 

239.  The  text  of  Colonel  Winslow's  proclamation  will  be  found 
in  Haliburion,  i.  175. 


EVANGELINE.  389 

Brings  these  ships  to  our  shores.  Perhaps  the  har 
vests  in  England 

By  untimely  rains  or  untimelier  heat  have  been 
blighted,  MS 

And  from  our  bursting  barns  they  would  feed  their 
cattle  and  children." 

"Not  so  thinketh  the  folk  in  the  village,"  said  warmly 
the  blacksmith, 

Shaking  his  head  as  in  doubt ;  then,  heaving  a  sigh, 
he  continued :  — 

"  Louisburg  is  not  forgotten,  nor  Beau  Sejour,  nor 
Port  Royal. 

Many  already  have  fled  to  the  forest,  and  lurk  on  its 
outskirts,  25* 

Waiting  with  anxious  hearts  the  dubious  fate  of  to 
morrow. 

Arms  have  been  taken  from  us,  and  warlike  weapons 
of  all  kinds ; 

Nothing  is  left  but  the  blacksmith's  sledge  and  the 
scythe  of  the  mower." 

Then  with  a  pleasant  smile  made  answer  the  jovial 
farmer :  — 

249.  Louisburg,  on  Cape  Breton,  was  built  by  the  French  as  a 
military  and  naval  station  early  in  the  eighteenth  century,  but 
was  taken  by  an  expedition  from  Massachusetts  under  General 
Pepperell  in  1745.  It  was  restored  by  England  to  France  in  the 
treaty  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  and  recaptured  by  the  English  in 
1757.  Beau  Se'jour  was  a  French  fort  upon  the  neck  of  land 
connecting  Acadia  with  the  mainland  which  had  just  been  cap 
tured  by  Winslow's  forces.  Port  Royal,  afterwards  called  Anna 
polis  Royal,  at  the  outlet  of  Annapolis  River  into  the  Bay  of 
Fundy,  had  been  disputed  ground,  being  occupied  alternately  by 
French  and  English,  but  in  1710  was  attacked  by  an  expedition 
from  New  England,  and  after  that  held  by  the  English  govern 
ment  and  made  a  fortified  place. 


390      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  Safer  are  we  unarmed,  in  the  midst  of  our  flocks 

and  our  cornfields,  25* 

Safer  within  these  peaceful  dikes  besieged  by  the  ocean, 
Than  our  fathers  in  forts,  besieged  by  the  enemy's 

cannon. 
Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,  and  to-night  may  no  shadow 

of  sorrow 
Fall  on  this  house  and  hearth ;  for  this  is  the  night 

of  the  contract. 
Built  are  the  house  and  the  barn.     The  merry  lads  of 

the  village  IN 

Strongly  have  built  them  and  well ;  and,  breaking  the 

glebe  round  about  them, 
Filled  the  barn  with  hay,  and  the  house  with  food  for 

a  twelvemonth. 
Bene"  Leblanc  will  be  here  anon,  with  his  papers  and 

inkhorn. 
Shall  we  not  then  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in  the  joy  of 

our  children  ?  " 
As  apart  by  the  window  she  stood,  with  her  hand  in 

her  lover's,  ws 

Blushing  Evangeline  heard  the  words  that  her  father 

had  spoken, 

And,  as  they  died  on  his  lips,  the  worthy  notary  en 
tered. 

in. 

Bent  like  a  laboring  oar,  that  toils  in  the  surf  of 
the  ocean, 

267.  A  notary  is  an  officer  authorized  to  attest  contracts  or 
writings  of  any  kind.  His  authority  varies  in  different  coun 
tries  ;  in  France  he  is  the  necessary  maker  of  all  contracts  where 
the  subject-matter  exceeds  150  francs,  and  his  instruments, 
which  are  preserved  and  registered  by  himself,  are  the  origi 
nals!  the  parties  preserving  only  copies. 


EVANGELINE.  391 

Bent,  but  not  broken,  by  age  was  the  form  of  the  no 
tary  public ; 

Shocks  of  yellow  hair,  like  the  silken  floss  of  the 
maize,  hung  270 

Over  his  shoulders;  his  forehead  was  high;  and 
glasses  with  horn  bows 

Sat  astride  on  his  nose,  with  a  look  of  wisdom  supernal. 

Father  of  twenty  children  was  he,  and  more  than  a 
hundred 

Children's  children  rode  on  his  knee,  and  heard  his 
great  watch  tick. 

Four  long  years  in  the  times  of  the  war  had  he  lan 
guished  a  captive,  275 

Suffering  much  in  an  old  French  fort  as  the  friend  of 
the  English. 

Now,  though  warier  grown,  without  all  guile  or  sus 
picion, 

Ripe  in  wisdom  was  he,  but  patient,  and  simple,  and 
childlike. 

He  was  beloved  by  all,  and  most  of  all  by  the  chil 
dren  ; 

For  he  told  them  tales  of  the  Loup-garou  in  the  for 
est,  280 

275.  King  George's  War,  which  broke  out  in  1744  in  Cape 
Breton,  in  an  attack  by  the  French  upon  an  English  garrison, 
and  closed  with  the  peace  of  Aix-la-Chapelle  in  1748  ;  or,  the 
reference  may  possibly  be  to  Queen  Anne's  war,  1702-1713> 
when  the  French  aided  the  Indians  in  their  warfare  with  the  col 
onists. 

280.  The  Loup-garou,  or  were-wolf ,  is,  according  to  an  old  su 
perstition  especially  prevalent  in  France,  a  man  with  power  to 
turn  himself  into  a  wolf,  which  he  does  that  he  may  devour  chil 
dren.  In  later  times  the  superstition  passed  into  the  more  inno 
cent  one  of  men  having  a  power  to  charm  wolves. 


392      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And  of  the  goblin  that  came  in  the  night  to  water  the 

horses, 
And  of  the  white  Letiche,  the  ghost  of  a  child  who 

unchristened 
Died,  and  was  doomed  to  haunt  unseen  the  chambers 

of  children ; 
And  how  on  Christmas  eve   the  oxen  talked  in  the 

stable, 
And  how  the  fever  was  cured  by  a  spider  shut  up  in 

a  nutshell,  ass 

And  of  the  marvellous  powers  of  four-leaved  clover 

and  horseshoes, 

With  whatsoever  else  was  writ  in  the  lore  of  the  village. 
Then  up  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside  Basil  the 

blacksmith, 

Knocked  from  his  pipe  the  ashes,  and  slowly  extend 
ing  his  right  hand, 
"Father  Leblanc,"  he  exclaimed,  "  thou  hast  heard 

the  talk  in  the  village,  290 

And,  perchance,  canst  tell  us  some  news  of  these  ships 

and  their  errand." 
Then  with  modest  demeanor  made  answer  the  notary 

public,  — 
"  Gossip  enough  have  I  heard,  in  sooth,  yet  am  never 

the  wiser ; 

282.  Pluquet  relates  this  superstition,  and  conjectures  that  the 
white,  fleet  ermine  gave  rise  to  it. 

284.  A  belief  still  lingers  among  the  peasantry  of  England,  as 
well  as  on  the  Continent,  that  at  midnight,  on  Christmas  eve,  the 
cattle  in  the  stalls  fall  down  on  their  knees  in  adoration  of  the 
infant  Saviour,  as  the  old  legend  says  was  done  in  the  stable  at 
Bethlehem. 

285.  In  like  manner  a  popular  superstition  prevailed  in  Eng 
land  that  ague  could  be  cured  by  sealing  a  spider  in  a  goose- 
quill  and  hanging  it  about  the  neck. 


EVANGELINE.  893 

And  what  their  errand  may  be  I  know  no  better  than 
others. 

Yet  am  I  not  of  those  who  imagine  some  evil  inten 
tion  aw 

Brings  them  here,  for  we  are  at  peace ;  and  why  then 
molest  us  ?  " 

"God's  name  !  "  shouted  the  hasty  and  somewhat  iras 
cible  blacksmith ; 

"  Must  we  in  all  things  look  for  the  how,  and  the  why, 
and  the  wherefore  ? 

Daily  injustice  is  done,  and  might  is  the  right  of  the 
strongest ! " 

But,  without  heeding  his  warmth,  continued  the  notary 
public,  —  «w 

"  Man  is  unjust,  but  God  is  just ;  and  finally  justice 

Triumphs ;  and  well  I  remember  a  story,  that  often 
consoled  me, 

When  as  a  captive  I  lay  in  the  old  French  fort  at 
Port  Royal." 

This  was  the  old  man's  favorite  tale,  and  he  loved  to 
repeat  it 

When  his  neighbors  complained  that  any  injustice  was 
done  them.  *» 

"  Once  in  an  ancient  city,  whose  name  I  no  longer  re 
member, 

liaised  aloft  on  a  column,  a  brazen  statue  of  Justice 

Stood  in  the  public  square,  upholding  the  scales  in  its 
left  hand, 

And  in  its  right  a  sword,  as  an  emblem  that  justice 
presided 

Over  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  the  hearts  and  homes 
of  the  people.  « 

302.  This  is  an  old  Florentine  story  ;  in  an  altered  form  it  is 
the  theme  of  Rossini's  opera  of  La  Gazza  Ladra. 


394      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Even  the  birds  had  built  their  nests  in  the  scales  of 
the  balance, 

Having  no  fear  of  the  sword  that  flashed  in  the  sun 
shine  above  them. 

But  in  the  course  of  time  the  laws  of  the  land  weta 
corrupted ; 

Might  took  the  place  of  right,  and  the  weak  were 
oppressed,  and  the  mighty 

Kuled  with  an  iron  rod.  Then  it  chanced  in  a  noble 
man's  palace  sis 

That  a  necklace  of  pearls  was  lost,  and  ere  long  a  sus 
picion 

Fell  on  an  orphan  girl  who  lived  as  maid  in  the  house 
hold. 

She,  after  form  of  trial  condemned  to  die  on  the  scaf 
fold, 

Patiently  met  her  doom  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of 
Justice. 

As  to  her  Father  in  heaven  her  innocent  spirit  as 
cended,  ao 

Lo  I  o'er  the  city  a  tempest  rose ;  and  the  bolts  of  the 
thunder 

Smote  the  statue  of  bronze,  and  hurled  in  wrath  from 
its  left  hand 

Down  on  the  pavement  below  the  clattering  scales  of 
the  balance, 

And  in  the  hollow  thereof  was  found  the  nest  of  a 
magpie, 

Into  whose  clay-built  walls  the  necklace  of  pearls  was 
inwoven."  » 

Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  when  the  story  was  ended, 
the  blacksmith 

Stood  like  a  man  who  fain  would  speak,  but  findeth 
no  language ; 


EVANGELINE.  395 

All  his  thoughts  were  congealed  into  lines  on  his  face, 

as  the  vapors 
Freeze  in  fantastic  shapes  on  the  window-panes  in  the 

winter. 

Then  Evangeline  lighted  the  brazen  lamp  on  the 
table,  330 

Filled,  till  it  overflowed,  the  pewter  tankard  with 
home-brewed 

Nut-brown  ale,  that  was  famed  for  its  strength  in  the 
village  of  Grand-Pre ; 

While  from  his  pocket  the  notary  drew  his  papers  and 
inkhorn, 

Wrote  with  a  steady  hand  the  date  and  the  age  of  the 
parties, 

Naming  the  dower  of  the  bride  in  flocks  of  sheep  and 
in  cattle.  335 

Orderly  all  things  proceeded,  and  duly  and  well  were 
completed, 

And  the  great  seal  of  the  law  was  set  like  a  sun  on 
the  margin. 

Then  from  his  leathern  pouch  the  farmer  threw  on  the 
table 

Three  times  the  old  man's  fee  in  solid  pieces  of  sil 
ver; 

And  the  notary  rising,  and  blessing  the  bride  and 
bridegroom,  MO 

Lifted  aloft  the  tankard  of  ale  and  drank  to  their 
welfare. 

Wiping  the  foam  from  his  lip,  he  solemnly  bowed  and 
departed, 

While  in  silence  the  others  sat  and  mused  by  the  fire 
side, 


#96      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Till  Evangeline  brought  the  draught-board  out  of  its 

corner. 
Soon  was  the  game  begun.     In  friendly  contention 

the  old  men  MS 

Laughed  at  each  lucky  hit,  or  unsuccessful  manosuvre, 
Laughed  when  a  man  was  crowned,  or  a  breach  was 

made  in  the  king-row. 
Jleanwhile  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of  a  window's 

embrasure, 
Sat  the  lovers  and  whispered  together,  beholding  the 

moon  rise 

Over  the  pallid  sea  and  the  silvery  mist  of  the  mead 
ows.  »50 
Silently  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows  of  heaven, 
Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the 

angels. 

Thus  was  the  evening  passed.    Anon  the  bell  from 

the  belfry 
Bang  out  the  hour  of  nine,  the  village  curfew,  and 

straightway 
Rose  the  guests  and  departed  ;  and  silence  reigned  in 

the  household.  »» 

344.  The  word  draughts  is  derived  from  the  circumstance  of 
drawing  the  men  from  one  square  to  another. 

354.  Curfew  is  a  corruption  of  couvre-feu,  or  cover  fire.  In 
the  Middle  Ages,  when  police  patrol  at  night  was  almost  un 
known,  it  was  attempted  to  lessen  the  chances  of  crime  by  mak 
ing  it  an  offence  against  the  laws  to  be  found  in  the  streets  in 
the  night,  and  the  curfew  bell  was  tolled,  at  various  hours,  ac 
cording  to  the  custom  of  the  place,  from  seven  to  nine  o'clock  in 
the  evening.  It  warned  honest  people  to  lock  their  doors,  cover 
their  fires,  and  go  to  bed.  The  custom  still  lingers  in  many 
places,  even  in  America,  of  ringing  a  bell  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening. 


EVANGELINE.  897 

Many  a  farewell  word  and  sweet  good-night  on  the 
door-step 

Lingered  long  in  Evangeline's  heart,  and  filled  it  w"*th 
gladness. 

Carefully  then  were  covered  the  embers  that  glowed 
on  the  hearth-stone, 

And  on  the  oaken  stairs  resounded  the  tread  of  the 
farmer. 

Soon  with  a  soundless  step  the  foot  of  Evangel  ine  fol 
lowed.  S80 

Up  the  staircase  moved  a  luminous  space  in  the  dark 
ness, 

Lighted  less  by  the  lamp  than  the  shining  face  of  the 
maiden. 

Silent  she  passed  through  the  hall,  and  entered  the 
door  of  her  chamber. 

Simple  that  chamber  was,  with  its  curtains  of  white, 
and  its  clothes-press 

Ample  and  high,  on  whose  spacious  shelves  were  care 
fully  folded  865 

Linen  and  woollen  stuffs,  by  the  hand  of  Evangeline 
woven. 

This  was  the  precious  dower  she  would  bring  to  her 
husband  in  marriage, 

Better  than  flocks  and  herds,  being  proofs  of  her  skiU 
as  a  housewife. 

Soon  she  extinguished  her  lamp,  for  the  mellow  and 
radiant  moonlight 

Streamed  through  the  windows,  and  lighted  the  room, 
till  the  heart  of  the  maiden  370 

Swelled  and  obeyed  its  power,  like  the  tremulous  tide 
of  the  ocean. 

Ah!  she  was  fair,  exceeding  fair  to  behold,  as  sb' 
stood  with 


898      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Naked  snow-white  feet  on  the  gleaming  floor  of  he* 

chamber ! 
Little  she  dreamed  that  below,  among  the  trees  of  the 

orchard, 
Waited  her  lover  and  watched  for  the  gleam  of  her 

lamp  and  her  shadow.  ns 

Yet  were  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  at  times  a  feeling 

of  sadness 
Passed  o'er  her  soul,  as  the  sailing  shade  of  clouds  in 

the  moonlight 
Flitted  across  the  floor  and  darkened  the  room  for  a 

moment. 
And,  as  she  gazed  from  the  window,  she  saw  serenely 

the  moon  pass 
Forth  from  the  folds  of  a  cloud,  and  one  star  follow 

her  footsteps,  wo 

As  out  of  Abraham's  tent  young  Ishmael  wandered 

with  Hagar. 

W. 

Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the  village 

of  Grand-Pre*. 
Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air  the  Basin  of 

Minas, 
Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  shadows,  were 

riding  at  anchor. 
Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and  clamorous 

labor  sss 

Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at  the  golden  gates 

of  the  morning. 
Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the  farms  and 

neighboring  hamlets, 
Came  in   their  holiday  dresses  the  blithe  Acadian 

peasants. 


EVANGELINE.  899 

Many  a  glad  good-morrow  and  jocund  laugh  from  the 
young  folk 

Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from  the  numer 
ous  meadows,  m 

Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track  of  wheels 
in  the  greensward, 

Group  after  group  appeared,  and  joined,  or  passed  on 
the  highway. 

Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds  of  labor  were 
silenced. 

Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people;  and  noisy 
groups  at  the  house-doors 

Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and  gossiped  to 
gether.  395 

Every  house  was  an  inn,  where  all  were  welcomed  and 
feasted ; 

For  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like  brothers 
together, 

All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what  one  had 
was  another's. 

Yet  under  Benedict's  roof  hospitality  seemed  more 
abundant : 

396.  "Real  misery  was  wholly  unknown,  and  benevolence 
anticipated  the  demands  of  poverty.  Every  misfortune  was  re 
lieved  as  it  were  before  it  could  be  felt,  without  ostentation  on 
the  one  hand,  and  without  meanness  on  the  other.  It  was,  in 
short,  a  society  of  brethren,  every  individual  of  which  was 
equally  ready  to  give  and  to  receive  what  he  thought  the  com 
mon  right  of  mankind."  —  From  the  Abbe"  Raynal's  account  oi 
the  Acadians.  The  Abbe"  Guillaume  Thomas  Francis  Raynal 
was  a  French  writer  (1711-1796),  who  published  A  Philosophi 
cal  History  of  the  Settlements  and  Trade  of  the  Europeans  in  the 
East  and  West  Indies,  in  which  he  included  also  some  account  of 
Canada  and  Nova  Scotia.  His  picture  of  life  among  the  Aca 
dians,  somewhat  highly  colored,  is  the  source  from  which  after 
writers  have  drawn  their  knowledge  of  Acadian  manners. 


400      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

For  Evangeline  stood  among  the  guests  of  her 
father ;  400 

Bright  was  her  face  with  smiles,  and  words  of  wel 
come  and  gladness 

Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips,  and  blessed  the  cup  as 
she  gave  it. 

Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of  the 
orchard, 

Stript  of  its  golden  fruit,  was  spread  the  feast  of  be 
trothal. 

There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the  priest  and 
the  notary  seated;  405 

There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil  the  black 
smith. 

Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cider-press  and 
the  beehives, 

Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with  the  gayest  of 
hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 

Shadow  and  light  from  the  leaves  alternately  played 
on  his  snow-white 

Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind ;  and  the  jolly  face  of 
the  fiddler  410 

Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes  are  blown 
from  the  embers. 

Gayly  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of  his 
fiddle, 

Tons  les  Bourgeois  de  Chartres,  and  Le  Carillon  de 
Dunkerque, 

413.  Tous  les  Bourgeois  de  Chartres  was  a  song  written  by 
Ducauroi,  maltre  de  chapette  of  Henri  IV.,  the  words  of  which 
are:  — 

Vous  cotmaissez  Cybele, 
Qui  eut  fixer  le  Temps  ; 
On  la  diaait  fort  belle, 
Mgme  dans  ae>  vieux  ana. 


EVANGELINE.  401 

And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time  to  the 

music. 
Merrily,  merrily  whirled  the  wheels  of  the  dizzying 

dances  <is 

Under  the  orchard-trees  and  down  the  path  to  the 

meadows ; 
Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children  mingled 

among  them. 
Fairest  of  all  the  maids  was  Evangeline,  Benedict's 

daughter ! 
Noblest  of  all  the  youths  was  Gabriel,  son  of  the 

blacksmith ! 

So  passed  the  morning  away.  And  lo !  with  a  sum 
mons  sonorous  420 

Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over  the  mead 
ows  a  drum  beat. 

Thronged  ere  long  was  the  church  with  men.  With 
out,  in  the  churchyard, 


Cette  divinit£,  quoique  deja  grand'  mere 
Avait  lea  yeux  douz,  le  teint  fraia, 
Avait  indue  certains  attraita 
Fermes  comme  la  Terre. 

Le  Carillon  de  Dunkerque  was  a  popular  song  to  a  tune  played 
on  the  Dunkirk  chimes.     The  words  are  :  — 
Imprudent,  te'me'raire 
A  1'instant,  je  1'espere 
Dans  mon  juate  courrouz, 
Tu  vaa  tomber  sous  rues  coups  1 
— Je  brave  ta  menace. 
—  Btre  moi !  quelle  audace  t 
Avance  done,  poltron  I 
Tu  trembles  ?  non,  non,  non. 
— J'etouffe  de  colere  ! 
— Je  ris  de  ta  colere. 

The  music  to  which  the  old  man  sang  these  songs  will  be  fonnfc 
in  La  Cle  du  Caveau,  by  Pierre  Capelle,  Nos.  564  and  739. 
Paris  :  A.  Cotelle, 


402      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Waited  the  women.     They  stood  by  the  graves,  and 

hung  on  the  headstones 
Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens  fresh  from 

the  forest. 
Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and  marching 

proudly  among  them  42s 

Entered  the  sacred  portal.     With  loud  and  dissonant 

clangor 
Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums  from  ceiling 

and  casement,  — 

Echoed  a  moment  only,  and  slowly  the  ponderous  por 
tal 
Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited  the  will  of 

the  soldiers. 
Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake  from  the 

steps  of  the  altar,  430 

Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals,  the  royal 

commission. 

"  You  are  convened  this  day,"  he  said,  "  by  his  Maj 
esty's  orders. 
Clement  and  kind  has  he  been ;  but  how  you  have 

answered  his  kindness 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply  !    To  my  natural  make  and 

my  temper 
Painful  the  task  is  I  do,  which  to  you  I  know  must 

be  grievous.  435 

Yet  must  I  bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the  will  of  our 

monarch : 
Namely,  that  all  your  lands,  and  dwellings,  and  cattle 

of  all  kinds 
Forfeited  be  to  the  crown ;  and  that  you  yourselves 

from  this  province 

432.  Colonel  Winslow  has  preserved  in  his  Diary  the  speech 
which  he  delivered  to  the  assembled  Acadians,  and  it  is  copied 
by  Halibui  ton  in  his  History  of  Nova  Scotia,  i.  166,  167. 


EVANGELINE.  403 

Be  transported  to  other  lands.     God  grant  you  may 

dwell  there 

Ever  as  faithful  subjects,  a  happy  and  peaceable  peo 
ple  !  440 
Prisoners  now  I  declare  you,  for  such  is  his  Majesty's 

pleasure ! " 
As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  the  sultry  solstice  of 

summer, 
Suddenly  gathers  a  storm,  and  the  deadly  sling  of  the 

hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer's  corn  in  the  field,  and  shatters 

his  windows, 
Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground  with  thatch 

from  the  house-roofs,  445 

Bellowing  fly  the  herds,  and  seek  to  break  their  en 
closures  ; 
So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended  the  words  of 

the  speaker. 
Silent  a  moment  they  stood  in  speechless  wonder,  and 

then  rose 

Louder  and  ever  louder  a  wail  of  sorrow  and  anger, 
And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly  rushed  to  the 

door-way.  450 

Vain  was  the  hope  of  escape;  and  cries  and  fierce 

imprecations 
Rang  through  the  house  of  prayer ;  and  high  o'er  the 

heads  of  the  others 
Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of  Basil  the 

blacksmith, 

As,  on  a  stormy  sea,  a  spar  is  tossed  by  the  billows. 
Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with  passion  ;  and 

wildly  he  shouted,  —  455 

"  Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England  I  we  never  have 

sworn  them  allegiance ! 


404      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Death  to   these   foreign   soldiers,  who  seize  on  om 

homes  and  our  harvests  !  " 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the  merciless  hand 

of  a  soldier 
Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged  him  down  t 

the  pavement. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of  angry  con 
tention,  460 
Lo  I  the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and  Father  Feli- 

cian 
Entered,  with  serious  mien,  and  ascended  the  steps  of 

the  altar. 
Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a  gesture  he  awed 

into  silence 
All  that  clamorous  throng ;  and  thus  he  spake  to  his 

people ; 
Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn ;  in  accents  measured 

and  mournful  465 

Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin's  alarum,  distinctly  the 

clock  strikes. 
"  What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children  ?  what  madness 

has  seized  you  ? 
Forty  years  of  my  life  have  I  labored  among  you,  and 

taught  you, 

Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one  another ! 
Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils  and  prayers 

and  privations  ?  «o 

Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of  love  and 

forgiveness  ? 
This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  woult 

you  profane  it 
Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  overflowing  with 

hatred? 


EVANGELINE.  405 

Ix>t  where  the  crucified  Christ  from  His  cross  is  ga&- 

ing  upon  you ! 
>ee !  in  those  sorrowful  eyes  what  meekness  and  holy 

compassion  I  475 

lark  1  how  those   lips  still   repeat  the   prayer,   *  O 

Father,  forgive  them  I ' 
Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when  the  wicked 

assail  us, 
Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  *  O  Father,  forgive 

them!'" 
Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in  the  hearts 

of  his  people 

Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  succeeded  the  pas 
sionate  outbreak,  4so 
While  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said,  "  O  Father, 

forgive  them  I  " 

Then  came  the  evening  service.    The  tapers  gleamed 

from  the  altar ; 
Fervent  and  deep  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  the 

people  responded, 
Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts;  and  the 

Ave  Maria 
Sang  they,  and  fell  on  their  knees,  and  their  souls, 

with  devotion  translated,  «5 

Rose  on  the  ardor  of  prayer,  like  Elijah  ascending  to 

heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the  tidings  of 

ill,  and  on  all  sides 
Wandered,  wailing,  from  house  to  house  the  women 

and  children. 
Long  at  her  father's  door  Evangeline  stood,  with  her 

right  hand 


406      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of  the  sun, 

that,  descending,  490 

Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious  splendor, 

and  roofed  each 
Peasant's  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and  emblazoned 

its  windows. 
iLong  within  had  been  spread  the  snow-white  cloth  on 

the  table ; 
There  stood  the  wheaten  loaf,  and  the  honey  fragrant 

with  wild  flowers ; 
There  stood  the  tankard  of  ale,  and  the  cheese  fresh 

brought  from  the  dairy ;  495 

And  at  the  head  of  the  board  the  great  arm-chair  of 

the  farmer. 
Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father's  door,  as  the 

sunset 
Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o'er  the  broad  am- 

brosial  meadows. 

Ah  I  on  her  spirit  within  a  deeper  shadow  had  fallen, 
And  from  the  fields  of  her  soul  a  fragrance  celestial 

ascended,  —  sw 

Charity,  meekness,  love,  and  hope,  and  forgiveness, 

and  patience  I 

Then,  all  forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered  into  the  vil 
lage, 
Cheering  with  looks  and  words  the  mournful  hearts  of 

the  women, 
As  o'er  the  darkening  fields  with  lingering  steps  they 

departed, 
Urged  by  their  household  cares,  and  the  weary  feet  of 

their  children.  sos 

492.  To  emblazon  is  literally  to  adorn  anything  with  ensigns 
armorial.  It  was  often  the  custom  to  work  these  ensigns  into 
the  design  of  painted  windows. 


EVANGELINE.  407 

Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in  golden,  glimmer 
ing  vapors 

Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the  Prophet  descend 
ing  from  Sinai. 

Sweetly  over  the  village  the  bell  of  the  Angelas 
sounded. 

Meanwhile,  amid  the  gloom,  by  the  church  Evange- 

line  lingered. 
All  was  silent  within ;  and  in  vain  at  the  door  and  the 

windows  ao 

Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  until,  overcome  by 

emotion, 
"  Gabriel ! "  cried  she  aloud  with  tremulous  voice ; 

but  no  answer 
Came  from  the  graves  of  the  dead,  nor  the  gloomier 

grave  of  the  living. 
Slowly  at  length  she  returned  to  the  tenantless  house 

of  her  father. 
Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the  board  was 

the  supper  untasted.  sis 

Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and  haunted  with 

phantoms  of  terror. 
Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the  floor  of  her 

chamber. 
In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the  disconsolate 

rain  fall 
Loud  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  sycamore-tree  by 

the  window. 
Keenly  the  lightning  flashed ;  and  the  voice  of  the 

echoing  thunder  sat 

Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven,  and  governed  the 

world  He  created! 


408      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Then  she  remembered  the  tale  she  had  heard  of  the 

justice  of  Heaven ; 
Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she  peacefully 

slumbered  till  morning. 

v. 

Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set ;  and  now  on 
the  fifth  day 

Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids  of  the 
farm-house.  525 

Soon  o'er  the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and  mournful  pro 
cession, 

Came  from  the  neighboring  hamlets  and  farms  the 
Acadian  women, 

Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household  goods  to 
the  sea-shore, 

Pausing  and  looking  back  to  gaze  once  more  on  their 
dwellings, 

Ere  they  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  winding  road  and 
the  woodland.  530 

Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and  urged  on 
the  oxen, 

While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped  some  frag 
ments  of  playthings. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  they  hurried;  and 

there  on  the  sea-beach 
Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods  of  the 

peasants. 
All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the  ships  did  the 

boats  ply ;  s» 

All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down  from  the 

Tillage. 
Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  near  to  hia 

setting, 


EVANGELINE.  409 

Echoed  far  o'er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of  drums  from 
the  churchyard. 

Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged.  On  a  sud 
den  the  church-doors 

Opened,  and  forth  came  the  guard,  and  marching  in 
gloomy  procession  MO 

Followed  the  long-imprisoned,  but  patient,  Acadian 
farmers. 

Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from  their  homes 
and  their  country, 

Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they  are  weary 
and  wayworn, 

So  with  songs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian  peasants  de- 
scended 

Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid  their  wives 
and  their  daughters.  MS 

Foremost  the  young  men  came ;  and,  raising  together 
their  voices, 

Sang  with  tremulous  lips  a  chant  of  the  Catholic 
Missions :  — 

"  Sacred  heart  of  the  Saviour !  O  inexhaustible  foun 
tain! 

Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and  submission 
and  patience ! " 

Then  the  old  men,  as  they  marched,  and  the  women 
that  stood  by  the  wayside  «e 

Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm,  and  the  birds  in  the  sun 
shine  above  them 

Mingled  their  notes  therewith,  like  voices  of  spirits 
departed. 

Half-way  down  to  the  shore  Evangeline  waited  in 

silence, 

Not  overcome  with  grief,  but  strong  in  the  hour  of 
affliction,  — 


410      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Calmly  and  sadly  she  waited,  until  the  procession  ap 
proached  her,  5a 

And  she  beheld  the  face  of  Gabriel  pale  with  emotion. 

Tears  then  filled  her  eyes,  and,  eagerly  running  to 
meet  him, 

Clasped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  whispered,  — 

"Gabriel!  be  of  good  cheer!  for  if  we  love  one 
another 

Nothing,  in  truth,  can  harm  us,  whatever  mischances 
may  happen !  "  seo 

Smiling  she  spake  these  words ;  then  suddenly  paused, 
for  her  father 

Saw  she,  slowly  advancing.  Alas !  how  changed  was 
his  aspect ! 

Gone  was  the  glow  from  his  cheek,  and  the  fire  from 
his  eye,  and  his  footstep 

Heavier  seemed  with  the  weight  of  the  heavy  heart 
in  his  bosom. 

But  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  she  clasped  his  neck  and 
embraced  him,  sas 

Speaking  words  of  endearment  where  words  of  com 
fort  availed  not. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  moved  on  that  mourn 
ful  procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult  and  stir  of 

embarking. 

Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats ;  and  in  the  confusion 
Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and  mothers, 

too  late,  saw  their  children  570 

Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms,  with  wildest 

entreaties. 
So  unto  separate  ships  were  Basil  and  Gabriel  carried. 


EVANOELINE.  411 

While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline  stood  with 

her  father. 
Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went  down, 

and  the  twilight 
Deepened   and  darkened  around;  and  in  haste  the 

refluent  ocean  975 

Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of  the 

sand-beach 
Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and  the  slip- 

pery  sea-weed. 
Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household  goods  and 

the  wagons, 

Like  to  a  gypsy  camp,  or  a  leaguer  after  a  battle, 
All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  sentinels  near 

them,  DM 

Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless  Acadian 

farmers.  \<'- 

Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the  bellowing 

ocean, 
Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling  pebbles,  and 

leaving 
Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded  boats  of  the 

sailors. 
Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds  returned  from 

their  pastures ;  «s 

Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor  of  milk 

from  their  udders ; 
Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well-known  bars 

of  the  farm-yard,  — 
Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and  the  hand 

of  the  milkmaid. 
Silence  reigned  in  the  streets;   from  the  church  no 

Angelus  sounded, 
Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed  no  lights 

from  the  windows.  ON 


412      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

But  on  the  shores  meanwhile  the  evening  fires  had 

been  kindled, 
Built  of  the  drift-wood  thrown  on  the  sands  from 

wrecks  in  the  tempest. 
"Round  them  shapes  of  gloom  and  sorrowful  faces  were 

gathered, 
Toices  of  women  were  heard,  and  of  men,  and  the 

crying  of  children. 
Onward  from  fire  to  fire,  as  from  hearth  to  hearth  in 

his  parish,  sw> 

Wandered  the  faithful  priest,  consoling  and  blessing 

and  cheering, 

Like  unto  shipwrecked  Paul  on  Melita's  desolate  sea 
shore. 
Thus  he  approached  the  place  where  Evangeline  sat 

with  her  father, 
And  in  the  flickering  light  beheld  the  face  of  the  old 

man, 
Haggard   and   hollow  and  wan,  and  without  either 

thought  or  emotion,  MO 

E'en  as  the  face  of  a  clock  from  which  the  hands  have 

been  taken. 
Vainly  Evangeline  strove  with  words  and  caresses  to 

cheer  him, 
Vainly  offered  him  food  ;  yet  he  moved  not,  he  looked 

not,  he  spake  not, 
But,  with  a  vacant  stare,  ever  gazed  at  the  flickering 

fire-light. 

"  Benedicite  !  "  murmured  the  priest,  in  tones  of  com 
passion.  60S 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  his  heart  was  full, 

and  his  accents 
Faltered  and  paused  on  his  lips,  as  the  feet  of  a  child 

on  a  threshold. 


EVANOELINE.  413 

Hushed  by  the  scene  he  beholds,  and  the  awful  pres 
ence  of  sorrow. 

Silently,  therefore,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  head  of  the 
maiden, 

Raising  his  tearful  eyes  to  the  silent  stars  that  above 
them  BIO 

Moved  on  their  way,  unperturbed  by  the  wrongs  and 
sorrows  of  mortals. 

Then  sat  he  down  at  her  side,  and  they  wept  together 
in  silence. 

Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a  light,  as  in  autumn 

the  blood-red 
Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and  o'er  the 

horizon 
Titan-like  stretches  its  hundred  hands  upon  mountain 

and  meadow,  MS 

Seizing  the  rocks  and   the  rivers,  and   piling  huge 

shadows  together. 
Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the  roofs  of 

the  village, 
Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  ships  that 

lay  in  the  roadstead. 
Columns  of  shining  smoke  uprose,  and  flashes  of 

flame  were 
Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn,  like  the 

quivering  hands  of  a  martyr.  ew 

615.  The  Titans  were  giant  deities  in  Greek  mythology  who 
attempted  to  deprive  Saturn  of  the  sovereignty  of  heaven,  and 
were  driven  down  into  Tartarus  by  Jupiter,  the  son  of  Saturn, 
who  hurled  thunderbolts  at  them.  Briareus,  the  hundred- handed 
giant,  was  in  mythology  of  the  same  parentage  as  the  Titans, 
but  was  not  classed  with  them. 


414      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the  burning 
thatch,  and,  uplifting, 

Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air,  at  once  from  a 
hundred  house-tops 

Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of  flame  inter 
mingled. 

These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd  on  the 
shore  and  on  shipboard. 

Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried  aloud  in  their 
anguish,  625 

"  We  shall  behold  no  more  our  homes  in  the  village  of 
Grand-Pre !  " 

Loud  on  a  sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow  in  the  farm 
yards, 

Thinking  the  day  had  dawned ;  and  anon  the  lowing 
of  cattle 

Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  barking  of  dogs 
interrupted. 

Then  rose  a  sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles  the  sleep 
ing  encampments  eso 

Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that  skirt  the 
Nebraska, 

When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep  by  with  the 
speed  of  the  whirlwind, 

621.   Gleeds.    Hot,  burning  coals  ;  a  Chaucerian  word  :  — 

"And  wafres  piping  hoot  out  of  the  gleede." 

Canterbury  Tale*,  1.  3379. 

The  burning  of  the  houses  was  in  accordance  with  the  instruc 
tions  of  the  Governor  to  Colonel  Winslow,  in  case  he  should  fail 
in  collecting  all  the  inhabitants  :  "  You  must  proceed  by  the  most 
vigorous  measures  possible,  not  only  in  compelling  them  to  em 
bark,  but  in  depriving  those  who  shall  escape  of  all  means  of 
shelter  or  support,  by  burning  their  houses  and  by  destroying 
everything  that  may  afford  them  the  means  of  subsistence  in  the 
•oantry." 


EVANGELINE.  415 

Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes  rush  to  the 

river. 
Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  on  the  night,  as  the 

herds  and  the  horses 
Broke   through   their   folds   and  fences,  and  madly 

rushed  o'er  the  meadows.  «s 

Overwhelmed  with  the  sight,  yet  speechless,  the 
priest  and  the  maiden 

Gazed  on  the  scene  of  terror  that  reddened  and 
widened  before  them ; 

And  as  they  turned  at  length  to  speak  to  their  silent 
companion, 

Lo  2  from  his  seat  he  had  fallen,  and  stretched  abroad 
on  the  seashore 

Motionless  lay  his  form,  from  which  the  soul  had  de 
parted.  «« 

Slowly  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless  head,  and  the 
maiden 

Knelt  at  her  father's  side,  and  wailed  aloud  in  her 
terror. 

Then  in  a  swoon  she  sank,  and  lay  with  her  head  on 
his  bosom. 

Through  the  long  night  she  lay  in  deep,  oblivious 
slumber ; 

And  when  she  woke  from  the  trance,  she  beheld  a 
multitude  near  her.  e« 

Faces  of  friends  she  beheld,  that  were  mournfully  gaz 
ing  upon  her, 

Pallid,  with  tearful  eyes,  and  looks  of  saddest  com 
passion. 

Still  the  blaze  of  the  burning  village  illumined  the 
landscape, 


416      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Reddened  the  sky  overhead,  and  gleamed  on  the  faces 

around  her, 
And  like  the  day  of  doom  it  seemed  to  her  wavering 

senses.  KM 

Then  a  familiar  voice  she  heard,  as  it  said  to  the  peo 
ple,— 
"  Let  us  bury  him  here  by  the  sea.     When  a  happier 

season 
Brings  us  again  to  our  homes  from  the  unknown  land 

of  our  exile, 
Then  shall  his   sacred  dust  be  piously  laid  in  the 

churchyard." 
Such  were  the  words  of  the  priest.     And  there  in 

haste  by  the  sea-side,  ess 

Having  the  glare  of  the  burning  village  for  funeral 

torches, 
But  without  bell  or  book,  they  buried  the  farmer  of 

Grand-Pre. 
And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the  service  of 

sorrow, 
Lo !  with  a  mournful  sound  like  the  voice  of  a  vast 

congregation, 
Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its  roar  with 

the  dirges.  eeo 

'T  was  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from  the  waste  of 

the  ocean, 

With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving  and  hur 
rying  landward. 
Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and  noise  of 

embarking ; 

667.  The  bell  was  tolled  to  mark  the  passage  of  the  soul  into 
the  other  world  ;  the  book  was  the  service  book.  The  phrase 
"  bell,  book,  or  candle  "  was  used  in  referring  to  excommunica 
tion. 


EVANGELINE.  417 

And  with  the  ebb  of  the  tide  the  ships  sailed  out  of 

the  harbor, 
Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore,  and  the 

village  in  ruins.  MS 


PAKT  THE  SECOND. 

I. 

MANY  a  weary  year  had  passed  since  the  burning  of 

Grand-Pre, 

When  on  the  falling  tide  the   freighted   vessels  de 
parted, 
Bearing  a  nation,  with  all  its  household  gods,  into 

exile, 
Exile  without  an  end,  and   without  an  example  in 

story. 
Far    asunder,    on     separate    coasts,    the     Acadians 

landed ;  ero 

Scattered  were  they,  like  flakes  of  snow,  when  the 

wind  from  the  northeast 
Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken  the  Banks 

of  Newfoundland. 
Friendless,  homeless,  hopeless,  they  wandered  from 

city  to  city, 
From  the  cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry  Southern 

savannas,  — 
From  the  bleak  shores  of  the  sea  to  the  lands  where 

the  Father  of  Waters  ers 

Seizes  the  hills  in  his  hands,  and  drags  them  down  to 

the  ocean, 
Deep  in  their  sands  to  bury  the  scattered  bones  of  the 

mammoth. 
677.  Bones  of  the  mastodon,  or  mammoth,  have  been  found 


418      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Friends  they  sought  and  homes ;  and  many,  despairing, 
heart-broken, 

Asked  of  the  earth  but  a  grave,  and  no  longer  a  friend 
nor  a  fireside. 

Written  their  history  stands  on  tablets  of  stone  in  the 
churchyards.  eat 

Long  among  them  was  seen  a  maiden  who  waited  and 
wandered, 

Lowly  and  meek  in  spirit,  and  patiently  suffering  all 
things. 

Fair  was  she  and  young ;  but,  alas !  before  her  ex 
tended, 

Dreary  and  vast  and  silent,  the  desert  of  life,  with  its 
pathway 

Marked  by  the  graves  of  those  who  had  sorrowed  and 
suffered  before  her,  sss 

Passions  long  extinguished,  and  hopes  long  dead  and 
abandoned, 

As  the  emigrant's  way  o'er  the   Western   desert  is 
marked  by 

Camp-fires  long  consumed,  and  bones  that  bleach  in 
the  sunshine. 

Something  there  was  in  her  life  incomplete,  imperfect, 
unfinished ; 

As  if  a  morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music  and  sun 
shine,  690 

Suddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and,  fading,  slowly  de 
scended 

Into  the  east  again,  from  whence  it  late  had  arisen. 

Sometimes  she  lingered  in  towns,  till,  urged  by  the 
fever  within  her, 

scattered  all  over  the  territory  of  the  United  States  and  Canada, 
but  the  greatest  number  have  been  collected  in  the  Salt  Licks  of 
Kentucky,  and  in  the  States  of  Ohio,  Mississippi,  Missouri,  and 

Ala.hfl.Tnn.- 


EVANQELINE.  419 

Urged  by  a  restless  longing,  the  hunger  and  thirst  of 
the  spirit, 

She  would  commence  again  her  endless  search  and  en 
deavor  ;  695 

Sometimes  in  churchyards  strayed,  and  gazed  on  the 
crosses  and  tombstones, 

Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought  that  perhaps 
in  its  bosom 

He  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to  slumber  be 
side  him. 

Sometimes  a  rumor,  a  hearsay,  an  inarticulate  whis 
per,  ^ 

Came  with  its  airy  hand  to  point  and  beckon  her  for 
ward.  700 

Sometimes  she  spake  with  those  who  had  seen  her  be 
loved  and  known  him, 

But  it  was  long  ago,  in  some  far-off  place  or  forgot 
ten. 

"  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  I  "  they  said ;  "  Oh,  yes  I  we  have 
seen  him. 

He  was  with  Basil  the  blacksmith,  and  both  have  gone 
to  the  prairies ; 

Coureurs-des-bois  are  they,  and  famous  hunters  and 
trappers.'*  T» 

699.  Observe  the  diminution  in  this  line,  by  which  one  is  led 
to  the  airy  hand  in  the  next. 

705.  The  coureurs-des-bois  formed  a  class  of  men,  very  early  in 
Canadian  history,  produced  by  the  exigencies  of  the  fur-trade. 
They  were  French  by  birth,  but  by  long  affiliation  with  the  In 
dians  and  adoption  of  their  customs  had  become  half-civilized 
vagrants,  whose  chief  vocation  was  conducting  the  canoes  of  the 
traders  along  the  lakes  and  rivers  of  the  interior.  Bushrangers 
is  the  English  equivalent.  They  played  an  important  part  in  the 
Indian  wars,  but  were  nearly  as  lawless  as  the  Indians  them 
selves.  The  reader  will  find  them  frequently  referred  to  in 


420      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  !  "  said  others  ;  "  Oh,  yes  1   we 

have  seen  him. 

He  is  a  voyageur  in  the  lowlands  of  Louisiana." 
Then  would  they  say,  "  Dear  child !  why  dream  an<? 

wait  for  him  longer  ? 

Are  there  not  other  youths  as  fair  as  Gabriel  ?  others 
Who  have  hearts  as  tender  and  true,  and  spirits  as 

loyal  ?  TIG 

Here  is  Baptiste  Leblanc,  the  notary's  son,  who  has 

loved  thee 
Many  a  tedious  year ;  come,  give  him  thy  hand  and  be 

happy! 
Thou  art  too  fair  to  be  left  to  braid  St.  Catherine's 

tresses." 
Then  would  Evangeline  answer,  serenely  but  sadly, 

"  I  cannot ! 
Whither  my  heart  has  gone,  there  follows  my  hand, 

and  not  elsewhere.  715 

For  when  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a  lamp,  and 

illumines  the  pathway, 
Many  things  are  made  clear,  that  else  lie  hidden  in 

darkness." 

Thereupon  the  priest,  her  friend  and  father  confessor, 
Said,  with  a  smile,  "O  daughter!  thy  God  thus 

speaketh  within  thee ! 
Talk  not  of  wasted  affection,  affection  never  was 

wasted ;  wo 

Farkman's  histories,  especially  in  The  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac, 
The  Discovery  of  the  Great  West,  and  Frontenac  and  New  France 
under  Louis  XIV. 

707.  A  voyageur  is  a  river  boatman,  and  is  a  term  applied 
usually  to  Canadians. 

713.  St.  Catherine  of  Alexandria  and  St.  Catherine  of  Siena 
were  both  celebrated  fbr  their  vows  of  virginity.  Hence  the  say 
ing  to  braid  St.  Catherine's  tresses,  of  one  devoted  to  a  single  life. 


EVANGELINE.  421 

If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its  waters,  re 
turning 

Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  fill  them  full 
of  refreshment ; 

That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns  again  to 
the  fountain. 

Patience  ;  accomplish  thy  labor  ;  accomplish  thy  work 
of  affection ! 

Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient  endurance 
is  godlike.  725 

Therefore  accomplish  thy  labor  of  love,  till  the  heart 
is  made  godlike, 

Purified,  strengthened,  perfected,  and  rendered  more 
worthy  of  heaven !  " 

Cheered  by  the  good  man's  words,  Evangeline  labored 
and  waited. 

Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge  of  the 
ocean, 

But  with  its  sound  there  was  mingled  a  voice  that 
whispered,  "  Despair  not !  "  730 

Thus  did  that  poor  soul  wander  in  want  and  cheer 
less  discomfort, 

Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and  thorns  of 
existence. 

Let  me  essay,  O  Muse !  to  follow  the  wanderer's  foot 
steps  ;  — 

Not  through  each  devious  path,  each  changeful  year 
of  existence ; 

But  as  a  traveller  follows  a  streamlet's  course  through 
the  valley :  735 

Far  from  its  margin  at  times,  and  seeing  the  gleam  of 
its  water 

Here  and  there,  in  some  open  space,  and  at  intervals 
only; 


422      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Then  drawing  nearer  its  banks,  through  sylvan  glooms 

that  conceal  it, 
Though  he  behold  it  not,  he  can  hear  its  continuous 

murmur; 
Happy,  at  length,  if  he  find  a  spot  where  it  reaches 

an  outlet  741 

n. 

It  was  the  month  of  May.  Far  down  the  Beautiful 
River, 

Past  the  Ohio  shore  and  past  the  mouth  of  the  Wa- 
bash, 

Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and  swift  Mis 
sissippi, 

Floated  a  cumbrous  boat,  that  was  rowed  by  Acadian 
boatmen. 

It  was  a  band  of  exiles :  a  raft,  as  it  were,  from  the 
shipwrecked  74* 

Nation,  scattered  along  the  coast,  now  floating  to 
gether, 

Bound  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  belief  and  a  com 
mon  misfortune  ; 

Men  and  women  and  children,  who,  guided  by  hope 
or  by  hearsay, 

Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among  the  few- 
acred  farmers 

On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the  prairies  of  fair  Ope- 
lousas.  »o 

741.  The  Iroquois  gave  to  this  river  the  name  of  Ohio,  or  the 
Beautiful  River,  and  La  Salle,  who  was  the  first  European  to 
discover  it,  preserved  the  name,  so  that  it  was  transferred  to 
maps  very  early. 

750.  Between  the  1st  of  January  ind  the  13th  of  May,  1766, 
about  six  hundred  and  fifty  Acadiaus  had  arrived  at  New  Or- 


EVANGELINE.  423 

With  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her  guide,  the 
Father  Felician. 

Onward  o'er  sunken  sands,  through  a  wilderness 
sombre  with  forests, 

Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  turbulent  river ; 

Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires,  encamped  on 
its  borders. 

Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green  islands, 
where  plumelike  755 

Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they  swept 
with  the  current, 

Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery  sand 
bars 

Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling  waves  of 
their  margin, 

Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  flocks  of  pel 
icans  waded. 

Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the  shores  of  the 
river,  TOT 

Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant  gar 
dens, 

Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro  cabins  and 
dove-cots. 

They  were  approaching  the  region  where  reigns  per 
petual  summer, 

leans.  Louisiana  had  been  ceded  by  France  to  Spain  in  1762, 
but  did  not  really  pass  under  the  control  of  the  Spanish  until 
1769.  The  existence  of  a  French  population  attracted  the  wan 
dering  Acadians,  and  they  were  sent  by  the  authorities  to  form 
settlements  in  Attakapas  and  Opelousas.  They  afterward  formed 
settlements  on  both  sides  of  the  Mississippi  from  the  German 
Coast  up  to  Baton  Rouge,  and  even  as  high  as  Pointe  Coupe"e. 
Hence  the  name  of  Acadian  Coast,  which  a  portion  of  the  banks 
of  the  river  still  bears.  See  Gayarre"s  History  of  Louisiana : 
The  French  Dominion,  vol.  ii. 


424      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and  groves  of 
orange  and  citron, 

Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away  to  the  east 
ward.  76i 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course ;  and,  entering 
the  Bayou  of  Plaquemine, 

Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and  devious 
waters, 

Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended  in  every 
direction. 

Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tenebrous  boughs 
of  the  cypress 

Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid 
air  TTO 

Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  ancient 
cathedrals. 

Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken,  save  by 
the  herons 

Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees  returning  at 
sunset, 

Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with  demoniac 
laughter. 

Lovely  the  moonlight  was  as  it  glanced  and  gleamed 
on  the  water,  775 

Gleamed  on  the  columns  of  cypress  and  cedar  sustain 
ing  the  arches, 

Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell  as  through 
chinks  in  a  ruin. 

Dreamlike,  and  indistinct,  and  strange  were  all  things 
around  them ; 

And  o'er  their  spirits  there  came  a  feeling  of  wonder 
and  sadness,  — 

Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen  and  that  cannot  be 
compassed.  no 


EVANGELINE.  425 

As,  at  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the  turf  of  the 

prairies, 
Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the  shrinking: 

O 

mimosa, 
So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad  forebodings  of 

evil, 
Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the  stroke  of  doom 

has  attained  it. 
But  Evangeline's  heart  was  sustained  by  a  vision,  that 

faintly  TW 

Floated  before  her  eyes,  and  beckoned  her  on  through 

the  moonlight. 
It  was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  assumed  the 

shape  of  a  phantom. 
Through  those  shadowy  aisles  had  Gabriel  wandered 

before  her, 
And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now  brought  him  nearer 

and  nearer. 

Then  in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the  boat,  rose  one 

of  the  oarsmen,  799 

And,  as  a  signal  sound,  if  others  like  them  peradven- 

ture 
Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and  midnight  streams,  blew  a 

blast  on  his  bugle. 
Wild  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  corridors  leafy 

the  blast  rang, 
Breaking  the  seal  of  silence  and  giving  tongues  to  the 

forest. 
Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss  just  stirred 

to  the  music.  795 

Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the  distance, 
Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the  reverberant 

branches ; 


426       HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

But  not  a  voice  replied ;   no  answer  came  from  the 

darkness ; 
And  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a  sense  of  pain 

was  the  silence. 
Then    Evangeline   slept  ;  but    the   boatmen    rowed 

through  the  midnight,  soo 

Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Canadian  boat- 
songs, 

Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Acadian  rivers, 
While  through  the  night  were  heard  the  mysterious 

sounds  of  the  desert, 
Far  off,  —  indistinct,  —  as  of  wave   or  wind   in  the 

forest, 
Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and  the  roar  of 

the  grim  alligator.  a» 

Thus  ere  another  noon  they  emerged  from  the 
shades  ;  and  before  them 

Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the  Atchaf alaya. 

Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the  slight  undula 
tions 

Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent  in  beauty, 
the  lotus 

Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads  of  the  boat 
men.  8H 

Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath  of  magno 
lia  blossoms, 

And  with  the  heat  of  noon ;  and  numberless  sylvan 
islands, 

Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  blossoming 
hedges  of  roses, 

Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along,  invited  to 
slumber. 

Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary  oars  were  sus 
pended.  «* 


EVANGELINE.  427 

Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows,  that  grew  by 
the  margin, 

Safely  their  boat  was  moored ;  and  scattered  about  on 
the  greensward, 

Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary  travell' 
slumbered. 

Over  them  vast  and  high   extended  the  cope  of  a 
cedar. 

Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet-flower  and 
the  grapevine  820 

Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the  ladder  of 
Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  ascending,  de 
scending, 

Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted  from  blos 
som  to  blossom. 

Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she  slumbered 
beneath  it. 

Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  and  the  dawn  of  an 
opening  heaven  sas 

Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of  regions 
celestial. 

Nearer,  ever  nearer,  among  the  numberless  islands, 
Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away  o'er  the 

water, 
Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of  hunters 

and  trappers. 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land  of  the 

bison  and  beaver.  wo 

At  the  helm  sat  a  youth,  with  countenance  thoughtfu7 

and  careworn. 
Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his  brow,  and 

a  sadness 


428      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was  legibly 
written. 

Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  unhappy  and 
restless, 

Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of  self  and  of 
sorrow.  sx 

Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the  lee  of  the 
island, 

But  by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a  screen  of  pal 
mettos  ; 

So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it  lay  concealed 
in  the  willows ; 

All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars,  and  unseen, 
were  the  sleepers ; 

Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken  the  slumber 
ing  maiden.  MO 

Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of  a  cloud  on 
the  prairie. 

After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes  had  died 
in  the  distance, 

As  from  a  magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke,  and  the 
maiden 

Said  with  a  sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  "  O  Father 
Felician  I 

Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me  Gabriel 
wanders.  MS 

Is  it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague  superstition  ? 

Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the  truth  to  my 
spirit  ?  " 

Then,  with  a  blush,  she  added,  "Alas  for  my  credu 
lous  fancy ! 

Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these  have  no 
meaning." 

But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and  he  smiled  as 
he  answered,  —  •« 


EVANGELINE.  429 

"  Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle ;  nor  are  they  to 

me  without  meaning, 
Feeling  is  deep  and  still ;  and  the  word  that  floats  on 

the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where  the  anchor 

is  hidden. 
Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what  the  world 

calls  illusions. 
Gabriel  truly  is  near  thee ;  for  not  far  away  to  the 

southward,  &» 

On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns  of  St.  Maur 

and  St.  Martin. 
There  the  long-wandering  bride  shall  be  given  again 

to  her  bridegroom, 
There  the  long-absent  pastor  regain  his  flock  and  his 

sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and  forests  of 

fruit-trees ; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  the  bluest  of 

heavens  see 

Bending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on  the  walls  of 

the  forest. 
They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the  Eden  of 

Louisiana.'* 

With  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose  and  continued 
their  journey. 

Softly  the  evening  came.  The  sun  from  the  western 
horizon 

Like  a  magician  extended  his  golden  wand  o'er  the 
landscape ;  MS 

Twinkling  vapors  arose  ;  and  sky  and  water  and  forest 

Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted  and  min 
gled  together. 


430      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Hanging  between  two  skies,  a  cloud  with  edges  of 
silver, 

Floated  the  boat,  with  its  dripping  oars,  on  the  mo 
tionless  water. 

Filled  was  Evangeline's  heart  with  inexpressible  sweet 
ness.  870 

Touched  by  the  magic  spell,  the  sacred  fountains  of 
feeling 

Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies  and  waters 
around  her. 

Then  from  a  neighboring  thicket  the  mocking-bird, 
wildest  of  singers, 

Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that  hung  o'er  the 
water, 

Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods  of  delirious 

music,  875 

That  the  whole  air  and   the  woods  and  the  waves 

seemed  silent  to  listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad ;  then  soaring 

to  madness 
Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel  of  frenzied 

Bacchantes. 

Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful,  low  lam 
entation  ; 
Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  flung  them  abroad 

in  derision,  sso 

As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind  through  the 

tree-tops 
Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal  shower  on 

the  branches. 

878.  The  Bacchantes  were  worshippers  of  the  god  Bacchus, 
'ho  in  Greek  mythology  presided  over  the  vine  and  its  fruits, 
i'hey  gave  themselves  up  to  all  manner  of  excess,  and  their 
longs  and  dances  were  to  wild,  intoxicating  measures. 


EVANGELINE.  431 

With  such  a  prelude  as  this,  and  hearts  that  throbbed 
with  emotion, 

Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it  flows  through 
the  green  Opelousas, 

And,  through  the  amber  air,  above  the  crest  of  the 
woodland,  sss 

Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from  a  neighbor 
ing  dwelling ;  — 

Sounds  of  a  horn  they  heard,  and  the  distant  lowing 
of  cattle. 

in. 

Near  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  o'ershadowed  by  oaks 
from  whose  branches 

Garlands  of  Spanish  moss  and  of  mystic  mistletoe 
flaunted, 

Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden  hatchets  at 
Yule-tide,  ew 

Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the  herdsman. 
A  garden 

Girded  it  round  about  with  a  belt  of  luxuriant  blos 
soms, 

Filling  the  air  with  fragrance.  The  house  itself  was 
of  timbers 

Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully  fitted  to 
gether. 

Large  and  low  was  the  roof ;  and  on  slender  columns 
supported,  sas 

Rose-wreathed,  vine-encircled,  a  broad  and  spacious 
veranda, 

Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee,  extended 
around  it. 

A.t  each  end  of  the  house,  amid  the  flowers  of  the 
garden, 


432      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Stationed  the  dove-cots  were,  as  love's  perpetual  gym. 
bol, 

Scenes  of  endless  wooing,  and  endless  contentions  of 
rivals.  900 

Silence  reigned  o'er  the  place.  The  line  of  shadow 
and  sunshine 

Ran  near  the  tops  of  the  trees ;  but  the  house  itself 
was  in  shadow, 

And  from  its  chimney-top,  ascending  and  slowly  ex 
panding 

Into  the  evening  air,  a  thin  blue  column  of  smoke 
rose. 

In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden  gate,  ran  a 
pathway  aos 

Through  the  great  groves  of  oak  to  the  skirts  of  the 
limitless  prairie, 

Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was  slowly  descend 
ing. 

Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with  shadowy 
canvas 

Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a  motionless  calm 
in  the  tropics, 

Stood  a  cluster  of  trees,  with  tangled  cordage  of 
grapevines.  910 

Just  where  the  woodlands  met  the  flowery  surf  of 

the  prairie, 
Mounted  upon   his   horse,  with  Spanish  saddle  and 

stirrups, 
Sat  a  herdsman,  arrayed  in  gaiters  and  doublet  of 

deerskin. 
Broad  and  brown  was  the  face  that  from  under  the 

Spanish  sombrero 
Gazed  on  the  peaceful  scene,  with  the  lordly  look  of 

its  master.  sis 


EVANGELINE.  433 

Round  about  him  were  numberless  herds  of  kine  that 
were  grazing 

Quietly  in  the  meadows,  and  breathing  the  vapory 
freshness 

That  uprose  from  the  river,  and  spread  itself  over  the 
landscape. 

Slowly  lifting  the  horn  that  hung  at  his  side,  and  ex 
panding 

Fully  his  broad,  deep  chest,  he  blew  a  blast,  that  re 
sounded  920 

Wildly  and  sweet  and  far,  through  the  still  damp  air 
of  the  evening. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  grass  the  long  white  horns  of  the 
cattle 

Rose  like  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse  currents  of 
ocean. 

Silent  a  moment  they  gazed,  then  bellowing  rushed 
o'er  the  prairie, 

And  the  whole  mass  became  a  cloud,  a  shade  in  the 
distance.  MS 

Then,  as  the  herdsman  turned  to  the  house,  through 
the  gate  of  the  garden 

Saw  he  the  forms  of  the  priest  and  the  maiden  ad 
vancing  to  meet  him. 

Suddenly  down  from  his  horse  he  sprang  in  amaze 
ment,  and  forward 

Pushed  with  extended  arms  and  exclamations  of  won 
der; 

When  they  beheld  his  face,  they  recognized  Basil  the 
blacksmith.  wo 

Hearty  his  welcome  was,  as  he  led  his  guests  to  the 
garden. 

There  in  an  arbor  of  roses  with  endless  question  and 
answer 


434      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Gave  they  vent  to  their  hearts,  and  renewed  thei? 

friendly  embraces, 
Laughing  and  weeping  by  turns,  or  sitting  silent  and 

thoughtful. 
Thoughtful,  for  Gabriel  came   not;   and  now  dark 

doubts  and  misgivings  935 

Stole  o'er  the  maiden's  heart ;  and  Basil,  somewhat 

embarrassed, 
Broke  the   silence  and   said,  "If  you  came  by  the 

Atchafalaya, 
How  have   you  nowhere   encountered   my  Gabriel's 

boat  on  the  bayous  ?  " 
Over  Evangeline's  face  at  the  words  of  Basil  a  shade 

passed. 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  said,  with  a  trem 
ulous  accent,  940 
"  Gone  ?  is  Gabriel  gone  ?  "  and,  concealing  her  face 

on  his  shoulder, 
All  her  o'erburdeued  heart  gave  way,  and  she  wept 

and  lamented. 
Then  the  good  Basil  said,  —  and  his  voice  grew  blithe 

as  he  said  it,  — 
"  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  child ;  it  is  only  to-day  he 

departed. 
Foolish  boy !  he  has  left  me  alone  with  my  herds  and 

my  horses.  945 

Moody  and  restless  grown,  and  tried  and  troubled,  his 

spirit 

Could  no  longer  endure  the  calm  of  this  quiet  exis 
tence. 

Thinking  ever  of  thee,  uncertain  and  sorrowful  ever, 
Ever  silent,  or  speaking  only  of  thee  and  his  troubles, 
He  at  length  had  become  so  tedious  to  men  and  to 

maidens,  MO 


EVANGELINE,  435 

Tedious  even  to  me,  that  at  length  I  bethought  me,  and 

sent  him 
^Tnto  the  town  of  Adayes  to  trade  for  mules  with  the 

Spaniards. 
±*hence  he  will  follow  the  Indian  trails  to  the  Ozark 

Mountains, 
Hunting  for  furs  in  the  forests,  on  rivers  trapping  the 

beaver. 

Therefore  be  of  good  cheer ;  we  will  follow  the  fugi 
tive  lover ;  955 
He  is   not  far  on  his  way,  and  the  Fates  and  the 

streams  are  against  him. 
Up  and  away  to-morrow,  and  through  the  red  dew  of 

the  morning, 
We  will  follow  him  fast,  and  bring  him  back  to  his 

prison." 

Then  glad  voices  were  heard,  and  up   from  the 

banks  of  the  river, 
Borne  aloft  on  his  comrades'  arms,  came  Michael  the 

fiddler.  *» 

Long  under  Basil's  roof  had  he  lived,  like  a  god  on 

Olympus, 

Having  no  other  care  than  dispensing  music  to  mor 
tals. 
Far  renowned  was   he   for  his  silver  locks  and  his 

fiddle. 
"  Long  live  Michael,"  they  cried,  "  our  brave  Acadian 

minstrel !  " 
As  they  bore  him  aloft  in  triumphal  procession ;  and 

straightway  9« 

Father  Felician  advanced  with  Evangeline,  greeting 

the  old  man 
Kindly  and  oft,  and  recalling  the  past,  while  Basil, 

enraptured, 


436      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Hailed  with  hilarious  joy  his  old  companions  and  gos 
sips, 

Laughing  loud  and  long,  and  embracing  mothers  and 
daughters. 

Much  they  marvelled  to  see  the  wealth  of  the  ci-devant 
blacksmith,  970 

All  his  domains  and  his  herds,  and  his  patriarchal 
demeanor ; 

Much  they  marvelled  to  hear  his  tales  of  the  soil  and 
the  climate, 

And  of  the  prairies,  whose  numberless  herds  were  his 
who  would  take  them ; 

Each  one  thought  in  his  heart,  that  he,  too,  would  go 
and  do  likewise. 

Thus  they  ascended  the  steps,  and,  crossing  the  breezy 
veranda,  975 

Entered  the  hall  of  the  house,  where  already  the  sup 
per  of  Basil 

Waited  his  late  return ;  and  they  rested  and  feasted 
together. 

Over  the    joyous   feast  the   sudden  darkness   de 
scended. 
All  was  silent  without,  and,  illuming  the  landscape 

with  silver, 
Fair  rose  the  dewy  moon  and  the  myriad  stars ;  but 

within  doors,  sso 

Brighter  than  these,  shone  the  faces  of  friends  in  the 

glimmering  lamplight. 
Then  from  his  station  aloft,  at  the  head  of  the  table, 

the  herdsman 
Poured  forth  his  heart  and  his  wine  together  in  endless 

profusion. 
Lighting  his  pipe,  that  was  filled  with  sweet  Natchi- 

toches  tobacco, 


EVANGELINE.  437 

Thus  he  spake  to  his  guests,  who  listened,  and  smiled 

as  they  listened :  —  MS 

"  Welcome  once  more,  my  friends,  who  long  have  been 

friendless  and  homeless, 

Welcome  once  more  to  a  home,  that  is  better  per 
chance  than  the  old  one  I 
Here  no  hungry  winter  congeals  our  blood  like  the 

rivers ; 
Here  no   stony  ground   provokes  the  wrath  of  the 

farmer ; 
Smoothly  the  ploughshare  runs  through  the  soil,  as  a 

keel  through  the  water.  wo 

All  the  year  round  the  orange-groves  are  in  blossom ; 

and  grass  grows 

More  in  a  single  night  than  a  whole  Canadian  summer. 
Here,  too,  numberless  herds  run  wild  and  unclaimed 

in  the  prairies ; 
Here,  too,  lands   may   be  had  for  the   asking,  and 

forests  of  timber 
With  a  few  blows  of  the  axe  are  hewn  and  framed 

into  houses.  ws 

After  your  houses  are  built,  and  your  fields  are  yellow 

with  harvests, 
No  King  George  of  England  shall  drive  you  away  from 

your  homesteads, 
Burning  your  dwellings  and  barns,  and  stealing  your 

farms  and  your  cattle." 
Speaking  these  words,  he  blew  a  wrathful  cloud  from 

his  nostrils, 
While  his  huge,  brown  hand  came  thundering  down 

on  the  table,  woo 

So  that  the  guests  all  started ;  and  Father  Felician, 

astounded, 
Suddenly  paused,  with  a  pinch  of  snuff  half-way  to 

his  nostrils. 


438      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

But  the  brave  Basil  resumed,  and  his  words  were 
milder  and  gayer :  — 

'*  Only  beware  of  the  fever,  my  friends,  beware  of  the 
fever ! 

For  it  is  not  like  that  of  our  cold  Acadian  climate,  loot 

Cured  by  wearing  a  spider  hung  round  one's  neck  in  a 
nutshell!" 

Then  there  were  voices  heard  at  the  door,  and  foot 
steps  approaching 

Sounded  upon  the  stairs  and  the  floor  of  the  breezy 
veranda. 

It  was  the  neighboring  Creoles  and  small  Acadian 
planters, 

Who  had  been  summoned  all  to  the  house  of  Basil  the 
herdsman.  1010 

Merry  the  meeting  was  of  ancient  comrades  and 
neighbors : 

Friend  clasped  friend  in  his  arms;  and  they  who 
before  were  as  strangers, 

Meeting  in  exile,  became  straightway  as  friends  to  each 
other, 

Drawn  by  the  gentle  bond  of  a  common  country 
together. 

But  in  the  neighboring  hall  a  strain  of  music,  pro 
ceeding  1014 

From,  the  accordant  strings  of  Michael's  melodious 
fiddle, 

Broke  up  all  further  speech.  Away,  like  children 
delighted, 

All  things  forgotten  beside,  they  gave  themselves  to 
the  maddening 

Whirl  of  the  dizzy  dance,  as  it  swept  and  swayed  to 
the  music, 

Dreamlike,  with  beaming  eyes  and  the  rush  of  flutter 
ing  garments.  UN 


EVANGELINE.  439 

Meanwhile,  apart,  at  the  head  of  the  hall,  the  priest 

and  the  herdsman 
Sat,  conversing  together  of  past  and  present  and 

future ; 
While  Evangeline  stood  like  one  entranced,  for  within 

her 
Olden  memories  rose,  and  loud  in  the  midst  of  the 

music 

Heard  she  the  sound  of  the   sea,   and   an   irrepres 
sible  sadness  ww 
Came  o'er  her  heart,  and  unseen  she  stole  forth  into 

the  garden. 
Beautiful  was  the  night.     Behind  the  black  wall  of 

the  forest, 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon.     On 

the  river 
Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a  tremulous 

gleam  of  the  moonlight, 
Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  darkened  and 

devious  spirit.  low 

Nearer  and  round   about  her,  the  manifold  flowers 

of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were  their  prayers 

and  confessions 
Unto  the  night,   as  it  went   its  way,  like  a  silent 

Carthusian. 

1033.  The  Carthusians  ate  a  monastio  order  founded  in  the 
twelfth  century,  perhaps  the  most  severe  in  its  rules  of  all  reli 
gious  societies.  Almost  perpetual  silence  is  one  of  the  vows;  the 
monks  can  talk  together  but  once  a  week  ;  the  labor  required  of 
them  is  unremitting  and  the  discipline  exceedingly  rigid.  The 
first  monastery  was  established  at  Chartreux  near  Grenoble  in 
France,  and  the  Latinized  form  of  the  name  has  given  us  the 
word  Carthusian. 


440      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with 
shadows  and  night-dews, 

Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden,  The  calm  and  the 
magical  moonlight  1035 

Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefinable  long 
ings, 

As,  through  the  garden  gate,  and  beneath  the  shade 
of  the  oak-trees, 

Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the  measure 
less  prairie. 

Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it,  and  fire-flies 

Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and  infinite 
numbers.  IMO 

Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in  the 
heavens, 

Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to  marvel 
and  worship, 

Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls  of 
that  temple, 

As  if  a  hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them, 
"Upharsin." 

And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars  and 
the  fire-flies,  IMS 

Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,  "  O  Gabriel !  O  my 
beloved ! 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot  behold 
thee? 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does  not 
reach  me  ? 

Ah  I  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to  the 
prairie ! 

Ah !  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the  wood 
lands  around  me !  105* 

Ah !  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from  labor, 


EVANGELINE.  441 

Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of  me  in 

thy  slumbers ! 
When  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms  be  folded 

about  thee  ?  " 
Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  note  of  a  whippoor- 

will  sounded 
Like  a  flute  in  the  woods ;  and  anon,  through  the 

neighboring  thickets,  io» 

Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped  into 

silence. 

"  Patience !  "  whispered  the  oaks  from  oracular  cav 
erns  of  darkness  ; 
And,  from   the  moonlit  meadow,  a  sigh  responded, 

"  To-morrow !  " 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  day ;  and  all  the  flowers 
of  the  garden 

Bathed  his  shining  feet  with  their  tears,  and  anointed 
his  tresses  loeo 

With  the  delicious  balm  that  they  bore  in  their  vases 
of  crystal. 

"Farewell!"  said  the  priest,  as  he  stood  at  the 
shadowy  threshold ; 

"See  that  you  bring  us  the  Prodigal  Son  from  his 
fasting  and  famine, 

And,  too,  the  Foolish  Virgin,  who  slept  when  the 
bridegroom  was  coming." 

"Farewell!  "  answered  the  maiden,  and,  smiling,  with 
Basil  descended  low 

Down  to  the  river's  brink,  where  the  boatmen  already 
were  waiting. 

Thus  beginning  their  journey  with  morning,  and  sun 
shine,  and  gladness, 

Swiftly  they  followed  the  flight  of  him  who  was  speed 
ing  before  them. 


442      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Blown  by  the  blast  of  fate  like  a  dead  leaf  over  tht» 

desert. 
Not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  yet  the  day  that  sue 

ceeded,  1079 

Found  they  trace  of  his  course,  in  lake  or  forest  or 

river, 
Nor,  after  many  days,  had  they  found  him  ;  but  vague 

and  uncertain 
Rumors  alone  were  their  guides  through  a  wild  and 

desolate  country ; 

Till,  at  the  little  inn  of  the  Spanish  town  of  Adayes, 
Weary  and  worn,  they  alighted,  and  learned  from  the 

garrulous  landlord  IOTS 

That  on  the  day  before,  with  horses  and  guides  and 

companions, 
Gabriel  left  the  village,  and  took  the   road  of  the 

prairies. 

rr. 

Far  in  the  "West  there  lies  a  desert  land,  where  the 

mountains 

Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their  lofty  and  lumi 
nous  summits. 
Down  from   their  jagged,  deep  ravines,  where  the 

gorge,  like  a  gateway,  IOM 

Opens  a  passage  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the  emigrant's 

wagon, 
Westward  the  Oregon  flows  and  the  Walleway  and 

Owyhee. 
Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the  Wind-river 

Mountains, 
Through  the  Sweet-water  Valley  precipitate  leaps  the 

Nebraska ; 
And  to  the   south,  from   Fontaiue-qui-bout  and  the 

Spanish  sierras*  to* 


EVANGELINE.  443 

Fretted  with  sands  and  rocks,  and  swept  by  the  wind 
of  the  desert, 

Numberless  torrents,  with  ceaseless  sound,  descend  to 
the  ocean, 

Like  the  great  chords  of  a  harp,  in  loud  and  solemn 
vibrations. 

Spreading  between  these  streams  are  the  wondrous, 
beautiful  prairies, 

Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow  and  sun 
shine,  1090 

Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and  purple 
amorphas. 

Over  them  wandered  the  buffalo  herds,  and  the  elk 
and  the  roebuck ; 

Over  them  wandered  the  wolves,  and  herds  of  rider 
less  horses ; 

Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that  are  weary 
with  travel ; 

Over  them  wander  the  scattered  tribes  of  Ishmael's 
children,  1095 

Staining  the  desert  with  blood  ;  and  above  their  terri 
ble  war-trails 

Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic,  the  vul 
ture, 

Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a  chieftain  slaughtered 
in  battle, 

By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling  the  heav 
ens. 

Here  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the  camps  of  these 
savage  marauders ;  1100 

Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  margins  of  swiff 
running  rivers ; 

And  the  grim,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite  monk  01 
the  desert, 


444      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for  roots  by 

the  brook-side, 
And  over  all  is  the  sky,  the   clear  and   crystalline 

heaven, 
Like   the   protecting  hand   of   God   inverted   above 

them.  n«6 

Into  this  wonderful  land,  at  the  base  of  the  Ozark 

Mountains, 
Gabriel  far  had  entered,  with  hunters  and  trappers 

behind  him. 
Day  after  day,  with  their  Indian  guides,  the  maiden 

and  Basil 
Followed  his  flying  steps,  and  thought  each  day  to 

o'ertake  him. 
Sometimes  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  the  smoke 

of  his  camp-fire  uio 

Rise  in  the  morning  air  from  the  distant  plain  ;  but 

at  nightfall, 
When  they  had  reached  the  place,  they  found  only 

embers  and  ashes. 
And,  though  their  hearts  were  sad  at  times  and  their 

bodies  were  weary, 

Hope  still  guided  them  on,  as  the  magic  Fata  Morgana 
Showed  them  her  lakes  of  light,  that  retreated  and 

vanished  before  them.  ms 

1114.  The  Italian  name  for  a  meteoric  phenomenon  nearly 
allied  to  a  mirage,  witnessed  in  the  Straits  of  Messina,  and  less 
frequently  elsewhere,  and  consisting  in  the  appearance  in  the 
air  over  the  sea  of  the  objects  which  are  upon  the  neighboring 
coasts.  In  the  southwest  of  onr  own  country,  the  mirage  is  very 
common,  of  lakes  which  stretch  before  the  tired  traveller,  and 
the  deception  is  so  great  that  parties  have  sometimes  beckoned 
to  other  travellers,  who  seemed  to  be  wading  knee-deep,  to  come 
over  to  them  where  dry  land  was. 


EVANQELINE.  445 

Once,  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire,  there  silently 

entered 

Into  the  little  camp  an  Indian  woman,  whose  features 
Wore  deep  traces  of  sorrow,  and  patience  as  great  as 

her  sorrow. 
She  was  a  Shawnee  woman  returning  home  to  her 

people, 
From  the  far-off  hunting-grounds  of  the   cruel  Ca- 

manches,  1120 

Where   her   Canadian  husband,   a  coureur-des-bois, 

had  been  murdered. 
Touched  were  their  hearts  at  her  story,  and  warmest 

and  friendliest  welcome 
Gave   they,  with  words  of  cheer,  and  she   sat  and 

feasted  among  them 
On  the  buffalo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked  on  the 

embers. 
But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil  and  all  his 

companions,  1125 

Worn  with  the  long  day's  march  and  the  chase  of  the 

deer  and  the  bison, 
Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  slept  where 

the  quivering  fire-light 
Flashed   on  their   swarthy  cheeks,  and  their  forms 

wrapped  up  in  their  blankets, 

Then  at  the  door  of  Evangeline's  tent  she  sat  and  re 
peated 

Slowly,  with  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  charm  of  her  In 
dian  accent,  iiso 
All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures,  and  pains, 

and  reverses. 
Much  Evangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to  know  that 

another 
Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and  had  been 

disappointed. 


446      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  by  pity  and  woman's 

compassion, 
Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleased  that  one  who  had  suffered 

was  near  her,  UK 

She  in  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  disasters. 
Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and  when  she  had 

ended 

Still  was  mute  ;  but  at  length,  as  if  a  mysterious  hor 
ror 
Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake,  and  repeated  the 

tale  of  the  Mowis ; 
Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,  who  won  and  wedded 

a  maiden,  mo 

But,  when  the  morning  came,  arose  and  passed  from 

the  wigwam, 
Fading  and  melting  away  and  dissolving  into  the  sun- 

shine, 
Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she  followed  far 

into  the  forest. 
Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed  like  a 

weird  incantation, 
Told  she  the  tale  of  the  fair  Lilinau,  who  was  wooed 

by  a  phantom,  1145 

That,  through  the  pines  o'er  her  father's  lodge,  in  the 

hush  of  the  twilight, 
Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whispered  love  to 

the  maiden, 
Till  she  followed  his  green  and  waving  plume  through 

the  forest, 
And  nevermore  returned,  nor  was  seen  again  by  her 

people. 

1146.  The  story  of  Lilinau  and  other  Indian  legends  will  b« 
found  in  H.  R.  Schoolcraft's  Algic  Retearchei, 


EVANGELINE.  447 

Silent  with  wonder  and  strange  surprise,  Evangeline 
listened  uso 

To  the  soft  flow  of  her  magical  words,  till  the  region 
around  her 

Seemed  like  enchanted  ground,  and  her  swarthy  guest 
the  enchantress. 

Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Mountains  the 
moon  rose, 

Lighting  the  little  tent,  and  with  a  mysterious  splen 
dor 

Touching  the  sombre  leaves,  and  embracing  and  filling 
the  woodland.  lisa 

With  a  delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed  by,  and  the 
branches 

Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely  audible  whis 
pers. 

Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evangeline's 
heart,  but  a  secret, 

Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite  terror, 

As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into  the  nest  of 
the  swallow.  uso 

It  was  no  earthly  fear.  A  breath  from  the  region  of 
spirits 

Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  of  night ;  and  she  felt  for  a 
moment 

That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she,  too,  was  pursuing  a 
phantom. 

With  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear  and  the 
phantom  had  vanished. 

Early  upon  the  morrow  the  march  was  resumed,  and 
the  Shawnee  uw 

Said,  as  they  journeyed  along,  —  "  On  the  western 
slope  of  these  mountains 


448      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Dwells  in  his  little  village  the  Black  Robe  chief  of 

the  Mission. 
Mnch  he  teaches  the  people,  and  tells  them  of  Mary 

and  Jesus ; 
Loud  laugh  their  hearts  with  joy,  and  weep  with  pain, 

as  they  hear  him." 
Then,  with  a  sudden  and  secret  emotion,  Evangeline 

answered,  1170 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  Mission,  for   there  good  tidings 

await  us  I  " 
Thither  they  turned  their  steeds  ;  and  behind  a  spur 

of  the  mountains, 
Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  they  heard  a  murmur  of 

voices, 
And  in  a  meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the  bank  of  a 

river, 
Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents  of  the  Jesuit 

Mission.  1175 

Under  a  towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 

village, 
Knelt  the  Black  Kobe  chief  with  his  children.     A 

crucifix  fastened 
High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  overshadowed  by 

grapevines, 

Looked  with  its  agonized  face  on  the  multitude  kneel 
ing  beneath  it. 

This  was  their  rural  chapel.     Aloft,  through  the  intri 
cate  arches  uso 
Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their  vespers, 
Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus  and  sighs  of 

the  branches. 
Silent,  with  heads  uncovered,  the  travellers,  nearer 

approaching, 
Knelt  on  the  swarded  floor,  and  joined  in  the  evening 

devotions. 


EVANGELINE.  449 

But  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the  benediction 
had  fallen  iiu 

Forth  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  like  seed  from  the 
hands  of  the  sower, 

Slowly  the  reverend  man  advanced  to  the  strangers, 
and  bade  them 

Welcome ;  and  when  they  replied,  he  smiled  with  be 
nignant  expression, 

Hearing  the  homelike  sounds  of  his  mother-tongue  in 
the  forest, 

And,  with  words  of  kindness,  conducted  them  into  his 
wigwam.  1190 

There  upon  mats  and  skins  they  reposed,  and  on  cakes 
of  the  maize-ear 

Feasted,  and  slaked  their  thirst  from  the  water-gourd 
of  the  teacher. 

Soon  was  their  story  told ;  and  the  priest  with  solem 
nity  answered :  — 

"  Not  six  suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Gabriel,  seated 

On  this  mat  by  my  side,  where  now  the  maiden  re 
poses,  1195 

Told  me  this  same  sad  tale ;  then  arose  and  continued 
his  journey ! " 

Soft  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  he  spake  with  an 
accent  of  kindness ; 

But  on  Evangeline's  heart  fell  his  words  as  in  winter 
the  snow-flakes 

Fall  into  some  lone  nest  from  which  the  birds  have 
departed. 

"  Far  to  the  north  he  has  gone,"  continued  the  priest ; 
"  but  in  autumn,  1200 

When  the  chase  is  done,  will  return  again  to  the  Mis 
sion." 

Then  Evangeline  said,  and  her  voice  was  meek  and 
submissive. 


460       HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  Let  me  remain  with  thee,  for  my  soul  is  sad  and  af 
flicted." 

So  seemed  it  wise  and  well  unto  all ;  and  betimes  on 
the  morrow, 

Mounting  his  Mexican  steed,  with  his  Indian  guides 
and  companions,  1205 

Homeward  Basil  returned,  and  Evangeline  stayed  at 
the  Mission. 

Slowly,   slowly,   slowly  the    days  succeeded  each 

other,  — 
Days  and  weeks  and  months ;  and  the  fields  of  maize 

that  were  springing 
Green  from  the  ground  when  a  stranger  she  came, 

now  waving  about  her, 
Lifted  their  slender  shafts,  with  leaves   interlacing, 

and  forming  mo 

Cloisters  for  mendicant  crows  and  granaries  pillaged 

by  squirrels. 
Then  in  the  golden  weather   the  maize  was  husked, 

and  the  maidens 
Blushed  at  each  blood-red  ear,  for  that  betokened  a 

lover, 
But  at  the  crooked  laughed,  and  called  it  a  thief  in 

the  corn-field. 
Even  the  blood-red  ear  to  Evangeline  brought  not  her 

lover.  MIS 

*  Patience !  "  the  priest  would  say ;  "  have  faith,  and 

thy  prayer  will  be  answered  ! 
Look  at  this  vigorous  plant  that  lifts  its  head  from 

the  meadow, 
See  how  its  leaves  are  turned  to  the  north,  as  true  as 

the  magnet ; 


EVANGELINE.  451 

This  is  the  compass-flower,  that  the  finger  of  God  has 

planted 
Here  in  the  houseless  wild,  to  direct  the  traveller's 

journey  1220 

Over  the   sea-like,   pathless,   limitless  waste  of  the 

desert. 
Such  in  the  soul  of  man  is  faith.     The  blossoms  of 

passion, 
Gay  and  luxuriant  flowers,  are  brighter  and  fuller  of 

fragrance, 
But  they  beguile  us,  and  lead  us  astray,  and  their 

odor  is  deadly. 

Only  this  humble  plant  can  guide  us  here,  and  here 
after  1225 
Crown  us  with  asphodel  flowers,  that  are  wet  with  the 

dews  of  nepenthe." 

So  came  the  autumn,  and  passed,  and  the  winter  — 

yet  Gabriel  came  not ; 
Blossomed  the  opening  spring,  and  the  notes  of  the 

robin  and  bluebird 
Sounded  sweet  upon  wold  and  in  wood,  yet  Gabriel 

came  not. 
But  on  the  breath  of  the  summer  winds  a  rumor  was 

wafted  1230 

1219.  SUphium  laciniatum  or  compass-plant  is  found  on  the 
prairies  of  Michigan  and  Wisconsin  and  to  the  south  and  west, 
and  is  said  to  present  the  edges  of  the  lower  leaves  due  north 
and  south. 

1226.  In  early  Greek  poetry  the  asphodel  meadows  were 
haunted  by  the  shades  of  heroes.  See  Homer's  Odyssey,  zziy. 
13,  where  Pope  translates  :  — 

"  In  ever  flowering  meads  of  Asphodel." 

The  asphodel  is  of  the  lily  family,  and  is  known  also  by  the 
name  king's  spear. 


452      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Sweeter  than  song  of  bird,   or  hue  or  odor  of  blos 
som. 
Far  to  the  north  and  east,  it  said,  in  the  Michigan 

forests, 
Gabriel  had  his  lodge  by  the  banks  of  the  Saginaw 

River. 
And,  with  returning  guides,  that  sought  the  lakes  of 

St.  Lawrence, 
Saying  a  sad  farewell,  Evangeline  went  from  the  Mis. 

sion.  1235 

When    over    weary    ways,    by    long    and    perilous 

marches, 
She  had  attained  at  length  the  depths  of  the  Michigan 

forests, 
Found  she  the  hunter's  lodge  deserted  and  fallen  to 

ruin  I 

Thus  did  the  long  sad  years  glide  on,  and  in  sea 
sons  and  places 
Divers   and    distant    far  was    seen    the    wandering 

maiden ;  —  12*0 

Now  in  the  Tents  of  Grace  of  the  meek  Moravian 

Missions, 
Now  in  the  noisy  camps  and  the  battle-fields  of  the 

army, 
Now  in   secluded  hamlets,   in  towns   and   populous 

cities. 
Like  a  phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away  unremem- 

bered. 
Fair  was  she  and  young,  when  in  hope  began  the  long1 

journey ;  1245 

Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappointment  it 

ended. 
1241.  A  rendering  of  the  Moravian  Gnadenhiitteu. 


EVANGELINE.  458 

Each  succeeding  year  stole  something  away  from  her 
beauty, 

Leaving  behind  it,  broader  and  deeper,  the  gloom  and 
the  shadow. 

Then  there  appeared  and  spread  faint  streaks  of  gray 
o'er  her  forehead, 

Dawn  of  another  life,  that  broke  o'er  her  earthly  hor 
izon,  1250 

As  in  the  eastern  sky  the  first  faint  streaks  of  the 
morning. 

v. 

In  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by  the  Dela 
ware's  waters, 

Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the 
apostle, 

Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream  the  city 
he  founded. 

There  all  the  air  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is  the  emblem 
of  beauty,  1255 

And  the  streets  still  reecho  the  names  of  the  trees  of 
the  forest, 

As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads  whose 
haunts  they  molested. 

There  from  the  troubled  sea  had  Evangeline  landed, 
an  exile, 

Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a  home  and  a 
country. 

There  old  Rene*  Leblanc  had  died;  and  when  he 
departed,  1260 

Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred  descend 
ants. 

1256.  The  streets  of  Philadelphia,  as  is  well  known,  are  many 
of  them,  especially  those  running  east  and  west,  named  for  trees, 
•s  Chestnut,  Walnut,  Locust,  Spruce,  Pine,  etc. 


454      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Something  at  least  there  was  in  the  friendly  streets  of 
the  city, 

Something  that  spake  to  her  heart,  and  made  her  no 
longer  a  stranger ; 

And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  Thee  and  Thou  01 
the  Quakers, 

For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian  country,     ws 

Where  all  men  were  equal,  and  all  were  brothers  and 
sisters. 

So,  when  the  fruitless  search,  the  disappointed  en 
deavor, 

Ended,  to  recommence  no  more  upon  earth,  uncom 
plaining, 

Thither,  as  leaves  to  the  light,  were  turned  her 
thoughts  and  her  footsteps. 

As  from  a  mountain's  top  the  rainy  mists  of  the  morn 
ing  1270 

Roll  away,  and  afar  we  behold  the  landscape  below  us, 
Sun-illumined,  with  shining  rivers  and  cities  and  ham 
lets, 
So  fell  the  mists  from  her  mind,  and  she  saw  the 

world  far  below  her, 
Dark  no  longer,  but  all  illumined  with  love ;  and  the 

pathway 
Which  she  had  climbed  so  far,  lying  smooth  and  fail' 

in  the  distance.  1275 

Gabriel  was  not  forgotten.     Within  her  heart  was  h>". 

image, 
Clothed  in  the  beauty  of  love  and  youth,  as  last  sne 

beheld  him, 
Only  more  beautiful  made  by  his  deathlike  silence  and 

absence. 
Into  her  thoughts  of  him  time  entered  not,  for  it  wi. . 

not. 


EVANGELINE.  455 

Over  him  years  had  no  power ,  he  was  not  changed, 

but  transfigured ;  123* 

He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is  dead,  and 

not  absent ; 

Patience  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devotion  to  others, 
This  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had 

taught  her. 
So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  to  some  odorous 

spices, 
Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss,  though  filling  the  air  with 

aroma.  uu 

Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life,  but  to  follow, 
Meekly  with  reverent  steps,  the  sacred  feet  of  her 

Saviour. 

Thus  many  years  she  lived  as  a  Sister  of  Mercy ;  fre 
quenting 
Lonely  and  wretched  roofs  in  the  crowded  lanes  of 

the  city, 
Where  distress  and  want  concealed  themselves  from 

the  sunlight,  1290 

Where  disease  and  sorrow  in  garrets  languished  neg 
lected. 
Night  after  night  when  the  world  was  asleep,  as  the 

watchman  repeated 
Loud,  through  the  gusty  streets,  that  all  was  well  in 

the  city, 
High  at  some  lonely  window  he  saw  the  light  of  her 

taper. 
Day  after  day,  in   the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  slow 

through  the  suburbs  iw 

Plodded  the  German  farmer,  with  flowers  and  fruits 

for  the  market, 
Met  he  that  meek,  pale  face,  returning  home  from  its 

watchings. 


466      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that  a  pestilence  fell  on  the 
city, 

Presaged  by  wondrous  signs,  and  mostly  by  flocks  of 
wild  pigeons, 

Darkening  the  sun  in  their  flight,  with  naught  in  their 
craws  but  an  acorn.  1300 

And,  as  the  tides  of  the  sea  arise  in  the  month  of  Sep 
tember, 

Flooding  some  silver  stream,  till  it  spreads  to  a  lake 
in  the  meadow, 

So  death  flooded  life,  and,  o'erflowing  its  natural  mar 
gin, 

Spread  to  a  brackish  lake  the  silver  stream  of  ex 
istence. 

Wealth  had  no  power  to  bribe,  nor  beauty  to  charm, 
the  oppressor ;  uw 

But  all  perished  alike  beneath  the  scourge  of  his 
anger ; — 

Only,  alas  !  the  poor,  who  had  neither  friends  nor  at 
tendants, 

Crept  away  to  die  in  the  almshouse,  home  of  the 
homeless. 

Then  in  the  suburbs  it  stood,  in  the  midst  of  meadows 
and  woodlands ;  — 

1298.  The  year  1793  was  long  remembered  as  the  year  when 
yellow  fever  was  a  terrible  pestilence  in  Philadelphia.  Charles 
Brockden  Brown  made  his  novel  of  Arthur  Mervyn  turn  largely 
upon  the  incidents  of  the  plague,  which  drove  Brown  away  from 
home  for  a  time. 

1308.  Fhiladelphians  have  identified  the  old  Friends'  alms- 
house  on  Walnut  Street,  now  no  longer  standing,  as  that  in  which 
Evangeline  ministered  to  Gabriel,  and  so  real  was  the  story  that 
Some  even  ventured  to  point  out  the  graves  of  the  two  lovers. 
See  Westcott's  The  Historic  Mansions  of  Philadelphia,  pp.  101, 
102. 


EVANGELINE.  457 

Now  the  city  surrounds  it ;  but  still,  with  its  gateway 
and  wicket  uu 

Meek,  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  its  humble  walls  seem 
to  echo 

Softly  the  words  of  the  Lord :  — "  The  poor  ye  al 
ways  have  with  you." 

Thither,  by  night  and  by  day,  came  the  Sister  of 
Mercy.  The  dying 

Looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thought,  indeed,  to  be 
hold  there 

Gleams  of  celestial  light  encircle  her  forehead  with 
splendor,  ms 

Such  as  the  artist  paints  o'er  the  brows  of  saints  and 
apostles, 

Or  such  as  hangs  by  night  o'er  a  city  seen  at  a  distance. 

Unto  their  eyes  it  seemed  the  lamps  of  the  city  celes 
tial, 

Into  whose  shining  gates  erelong  their  spirits  would 
enter. 

Thus,  on  a  Sabbath  morn,  through  the  streets,  de 
serted  and  silent,  IHO 

Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the  door  of  the 
almshouse. 

Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odor  of  flowers  in 
the  garden, 

And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the  fairest 
among  them, 

That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in  their  fra 
grance  and  beauty. 

Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  corridors, 
cooled  by  the  east-wind,  iszs 

Distant  and  soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  chimes  from  the 
belfry  of  Christ  Church, 


468      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

While,  intermingled  with  these,  across  the  meadows 

were  wafted 
Sounds  of  psalms,  that  were  sung  by  the  Swedes  in 

their  church  at  Wicaco. 
Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of  the  hour  on 

her  spirit ; 
Something  within  her  said,  "  At  length  thy  trials  are 

ended ; "  mo 

And,  with  light  in  her  looks,  she  entered  the  cham 
bers  of  sickness. 

Noiselessly  moved  about  the  assiduous,  careful  attend 
ants, 
Moistening  the  feverish  lip,  and  the  aching  brow,  and 

in  silence 
Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and  concealing 

their  faces, 
Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts  of  snow 

by  the  roadside.  ISM 

Many  a  languid  head,  upraised  as  Evangeline  entered, 
Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  to  gaze  while  she  passed, 

for  her  presence 
Fell  on  their  hearts  like  a  ray  of  the  sun  on  the  walls 

of  a  prison. 
And,  as  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how  Death,  the 

consoler, 
Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a  heart,  had  healed  it 

forever.  1340 

1328.  The  Swedes'  church  at  Wicaco  is  still  standing,  the 
oldest  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia,  having  been  begun  in  1698. 
Wicaco  is  within  the  city,  on  the  banks  of  the  Delaware  River. 
An  interesting  account  of  the  old  church  and  its  historic  associa 
tions  will  be  found  in  Westcott's  book  just  mentioned,  pp.  56-67. 
Wilson  the  ornithologist  lies  buried  in  the  churchyard  adjoining 
the  church. 


EVANGEL1NE.  459 

Many  familiar  forms  had  disappeared  in  the  night 

time ; 
Vacant  their  places  were,  or  filled  already  by  strangers. 

Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  by  fear  or  a  feeling  of 

wonder, 
Still  she  stood,  with  her  colorless  lips  apart,  while  a 

shudder 
Ran  through  her  frame,  and,  forgotten,  the  flowerets 

dropped  from  her  fingers,  1345 

And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light  and  bloom  of 

the  morning. 

Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of  such  terri 
ble  anguish, 
That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from  their 

pillows. 
On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the  form  of  an 

old  man. 
Long,  and  thin,  and  gray  were  the  locks  that  shaded 

his  temples ;  ISM 

But,  as  he  lay  hi  the  morning  light,  his  face  for  a 

moment 
Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its  earlier 

manhood : 
So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those  who  are 

dying. 
Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of  the 

fever, 
As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had  besprinkled 

its  portals,  i*5* 

That  the  Angel  of  Death  might  see  the  sign,  and  pass 

over. 
Motionless,   senseless,  dying,  he  lay,  and  his  spirit 

exhausted 


4GO      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Seemed  to  be  sinking  down  through  infinite  depths  in 

the  darkness, 
Darkness  of  slumber  and  death,  forever  sinking  and 

sinking. 
Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  multiplied 

reverberations,  iseo 

Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through  the  hush  that 

succeeded 

Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and  saint 
like, 

"Gabriel!  O  my  beloved!"   and  died  away  into  si 
lence. 
Then  he  beheld,  in  a  dream,  once  more  the  home  of 

his  childhood ; 
Green  Acadian  meadows,  with  sylvan   rivers  among 

them,  1365 

Village,  and  mountain,  and  woodlands ;  and,  walking 

under  their  shadow, 
As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in  his 

vision. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes ;  and  as  slowly  he  lifted  his 

eyelids, 
Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline  knelt  by  his 

bedside. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for  the  accents 

unuttered  1370 

Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed  what  his 

tongue  would  have  spoken. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  rise;   and  Evangeline,  kneeling 

beside  him, 

Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom. 
Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes ;  but  it  suddenly  sank 

into  darkness, 
As  when  a  lamp  is  blown  out  by  a  gust  of  wind  at  a 

casement.  u» 


EVANOELINE.  461 

All  was  ended  now,  the  hope,  and  the  fear,  and  the 

sorrow, 
All    the    aching   of   heart,    the    restless,    unsatisfied 

longing, 
All   the   dull,  deep   pain,  and   constant   anguish  of 

patience ! 
And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless  head  to  her 

bosom, 
Meekly  she  bowed  her  own,  and  murmured,  "  Father, 

I  thank  thee  1 "  uao 


Still  stands  the  forest  primeval ;  but  far  away  from 
its  shadow, 

Side  by  side,  in  their  nameless  graves,  the  lovers  are 
sleeping. 

Under  the  humble  walls  of  the  little  Catholic  church 
yard, 

In  the  heart  of  the  city,  they  lie,  unknown  and  un 
noticed. 

Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flowing  beside 
them,  IMS 

Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where  theirs  are  at 
rest  and  forever, 

Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs  no  longer 
are  busy, 

Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs  have  ceased 
from  their  labors, 

Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have  completed 
their  journey ! 

Still   stands  the  forest  primeval;   but  under  the 

shade  of  its  branches  ISM 

Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs  and  language. 


462      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Only  along  the   shore   of  the  mournful  and  misty 

Atlantic 
Linger  a  few  Acadian  peasants,  whose  fathers  from 

exile 
Wandered  back  to   their  native  land  to  die  in  its 

bosom. 
In  the  fisherman's  cot  the  wheel  and  the  loom  are  still 

busy ;  1395 

Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and  their  kirtles 

of  homespun, 

And  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evangeline's  story, 
While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep-voiced,  neigh 
boring  ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail 

of  the  forest. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  FOR 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

EDGAR  POE  was  born  January  19, 1809,  in  Boston.  His 
father,  David  Poe,  the  runaway  son  of  General  David  Poe 
of  Baltimore,  was  an  actor ;  his  mother  was  a  young  actress 
of  English  descent.  Soon  after  Edgar's  birth  his  father 
died,  and  at  his  mother's  death,  about  three  years  later,  the 
boy  was  adopted  into  the  family  of  John  Allan,  a  wealthy 
merchant  of  Richmond.  Mr.  Allan  seems  to  have  be 
stowed  on  his  adopted  son  everything  he  would  have  given 
his  own  child,  —  although  regarding  him  with  pride,  per 
haps,  rather  than  affection,  —  and  Poe's  early  years  were 
happy  ones.  He  received  an  excellent  education  at  the 
Manor  House  School,  in  Stoke  Newington,  during  the 
five  years  (1815-1820)  that  the  family  was  in  England, 
and  for  the  next  five  years  at  a  classical  school  in  Rich 
mond.  In  1826  he  entered  the  schools  of  ancient  and 
modern  languages  in  the  University  of  Virginia,  which  had 
just  opened  its  doors,  with  Thomas  Jefferson  in  the  presi 
dent's  chair.  There  Poe's  quick  and  brilliant  scholarship 
won  for  him  the  highest  honors  in  Latin  and  French  ;  but 
he  was  not  a  diligent  student,  nor  was  he  enamored  of  ac 
curacy,  and  although  he  seems  never  to  have  come  under 
the  notice  of  the  faculty  in  a  way  to  invite  censure,  he 
was  nevertheless  not  allowed  to  return  for  his  second  year, 
but  was  kept  at  home  by  his  guardian  and  put  to  work  in 
the  counting-room. 

This  work  proved  unbearable  to  Poe,  and  he  soon  ran 


464  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

away,  as  his  father  had  done  before  him,  and  went  to  Bos 
ton.  There  he  appears  to  have  lived  under  an  assumed 
name.  His  first  book,  Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems,  was 
published  in  1827  under  the  pseudonym  of  '"  A  Bostonian," 
not  even  the  printer  knowing  the  author's  real  name,  and  in 
the  same  year  Poe  enlisted  in  the  United  States  Army  as 
Edgar  A.  Perry,  giving  his  age  as  twenty-two. 

His  military  career  covers  a  period  of  four  years,  and 
is  not  without  incident.  When  he  enlisted,  he  was  assigned 
to  the  First  Artillery,  and  he  served  with  this  command  at 
Fort  Independence  in  Boston  Harbor,  and  later  at  Fort 
Moultrie  and  Fortress  Monroe,  rising  to  the  rank  of  ser 
geant-major.  Mr.  Allan  learned  of  his  whereabouts  in 
1829,  and  secured  his  discharge  from  the  army.  In  the 
same  year  Poe  published  at  Baltimore,  under  his  own  name, 
a  second  volume  of  his  poems,  entitled  Al  Aaraaf,  Tamer 
lane,  and  Minor  Poems.  In  1830  he  entered  the  Military 
Academy  at  West  Point,  where  he  stayed  about  six  months. 
Deliberate,  prolonged  neglect  of  duty  then  caused  him  to 
be  court-martialed  and  dismissed.  Reconciliation  with  Mr. 
Allan  was  this  time  impossible,  and  Poe  was  thrown  finally 
on  his  own  resources. 

Immediately  after  leaving  West  Point,  Poe  went  to  New 
York,  and  there  published  a  volume  with  the  simple  title 
Poems,  calling  it  a  second  edition,  although  it  was  really  a 
third.  He  then  settled  at  Baltimore,  where  in  October, 
1833,  he  won  a  prize  of  £100  by  his  story  entitled  A  MS. 
found  in  a  Bottle.  He  began,  also,  to  write  for  The 
Southern  Literary  Messenger,  a  new  periodical  published 
at  Richmond,  and  after  a  short  time  he  removed  to  that  city 
and  became  the  Messenger's  assistant  editor.  He  was  well 
fitted  for  editorial  work,  and  his  many  tales,  criticisms,  and 
poems  soon  made  the  magazine  famous.  Much  of  this  work 
was  done  under  pressure  and  is  of  little  interest  now ;  a  few 
of  the  poems  strike  a  new  note,  and  a  half  dozen  of  the 
tales  have  been  preserved  in  the  Tales  of  the  Folio  Club. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  465 

Bat  his  book  reviews  made  the  new  Southern  monthly  a 
magazine  of  national  reputation.  They  were  of  a  sort  not 
previously  known  in  this  country,  hold,  keen,  and  effective ; 
they  aroused  much  interest,  and  they  made  Poe's  name 
known  throughout  the  land.  During  this  period  of  prosperity 
Poe  married,  on  May  16, 1836,  his  cousin,  Virginia  Clemm, 
who  was  then  less  than  fourteen  years  old. 

In  January,  1837,  however,  the  prosperity  ended.  Poe's 
eccentric  nature  caused  him  to  leave  the  Messenger,  and  he 
went  to  New  York  to  live.  He  stayed  in  New  York  one 
year,  publishing  his  longest  story,  The  Narrative  of  Arthur 
Gordon  Pym,  and  then  removed  to  Philadelphia.  During 
the  six  years  of  his  residence  there  he  contributed  to  various 
magazines  and  did  much  editorial  work.  He  published 
Tales  of  the  Arabesque  and  Grotesque  (1840)  ;  he  edited 
The  Gentleman's  Magazine,  reprinting  his  old  work  some 
times  with  changed  titles  and  slightly  revised  text ;  he  tried 
without  success  to  start  a  journal  of  his  own  ;  he  edited  also, 
for  a  short  time,  Graham's  Magazine,  then  a  leading  literary 
journal.  In  1843  he  won  another  prize  of  $100  with  The 
Gold-Bug. 

Poe's  popularity  was  growing,  and  it  reached  its  height 
in  1844,  when  he  returned  to  New  York  and  formed  a  con 
nection  with  The  Mirror.  In  January,  1845,  this  paper 
published  The  Raven,  which  brought  the  author  instanta 
neous  fame.  He  became  the  literary  success  of  the  day, 
and  his  works  were  published  and  sold  in  new  editions. 
But  despite  these  apparently  brilliant  prospects,  worldly 
success  was  as  far  distant  as  ever.  For  a  few  months  Poe 
was  one  of  the  editors  of  a  new  weekly,  The  Broadway 
Journal,  but  he  broke  with  his  partner,  and  an  attempt  to 
conduct  the  paper  alone  resulted  in  failure.  During  this 
year  he  published  a  volume  of  Tales  and  The  Raven  and 
Other  Poems. 

Early  in  1846  Poe  removed  to  the  famous  cottage  at 
Fordham,  New  York,  and  here,  on  January  30,  1847,  his 


466  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

young  wife  died  amid  scenes  of  direst  poverty.  The  brief 
remainder  of  Foe's  life  was  marked  by  a  feverish  eagerness 
approaching  very  near  to  insanity.  He  wrote  for  various 
magazines,  publishing  among  many  other  things  The  Sells 
and  Eureka.  His  life  became  more  and  more  erratic  ;  on 
the  3d  of  October,  1849,  he  was  found  in  delirium  in  Balti 
more,  and  four  days  later  he  died  in  a  hospital  in  that  city. 
^f  Poe's  writings,  whether  prose  or  verse,  always  reflect  the 
nature  of  the  man.  He  was  reserved,  isolated,  and  dreamy, 
with  high-strung  nerves  and  a  longing  for  solitude,  and  his 
writings  show  a  wildness  of  genius  and  a  fondness  for 
scenes  of  mystery  and  desolation.  The  body  of  his  poeti 
cal  work  is  slight,  but  it  is  marked  by  a  weird  melody 
hardly  to  be  found  elsewhere  in  English.  His  prose  is  more 
considerable  in  amount,  and  consists  of  criticisms  and  of  a 
morbidly  imaginative  and  sombrely  supernatural  fiction. 
His  critical  work,  appearing  at  a  time  when  true  criticism 
was  almost  unknown  in  America,  was  long  considered  his 
best  work,  but  is  now  little  read.  The  themes  of  his  tales 
are  to  many  readers  forbiddingly  remote ;  he  dwells  on 
scenes  of  physical  decay  that  are  sometimes  repulsive  and 
loathsome.  But  to  persons  of  sensitive  imagination  they 
have  a  notable  charm,  and  they  have  served  as  models  for 
a  whole  class  of  weird  and  mysterious  literature.  Poe  will 
be  known  by  most  readers  as  the  author  of  a  few  curious 
poems  and  many  short  pieces  of  powerful  and  uncanny  fic 
tion  ;  but  the  beauty  and  rhythm  of  these  few  poems,  and 
the  power  and  intensity  of  the  tales,  make  secure  Poe's  place 
among  the  immortals  of  American  literature. 


POEMS. 

THE  RAVEN.* 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak 
and  weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 
lore, — 

While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 
a  tapping, 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  cham 
ber  door. 

"'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my 
chamber  door :  * 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

*  The  Raven  was  first  formally  published  in  the  American 
Whig  Review  for  February,  1845,  but  had  been  copied  by  pep- 
mission  in  the  Evening  Mirror  for  January  29,  of  the  same 
year.  Later  in  the  year  it  was  the  title  poem  of  a  volume  con 
taining  most  of  Poe's  work  in  verse.  Many  stories  are  told  with 
regard  to  the  circumstances  of  its  composition,  none  of  which 
deserves  much  more  credence  than  Poe's  own  account  in  hia 
Philosophy  of  Composition,  which,  if  taken  literally,  would  prove 
the  poem  to  be  little  more  than  a  tour  de  force.  Poe  did 
probably  apply,  in  a  semi-conscious  way,  certain  principles  of 
style  and  versification  that  he  had  partly  developed  for  himself, 
and  he  may  have  owed  something  to  an  obscure  poet  named 
Chivers,  over  and  above  what  he  owed  Coleridge  and  Mrs. 
Browning  ;  but,  when  all  is  said,  the  world  has  not  been  wrong 
in  regarding  The  Raven  as  a  highly  original  and  powerfully 
moving  poem,  and  in  according  it  a  popularity  second  only  to 
that  which  it  has  long  granted  to  Gray's  Elegy.  Like  the  Elegy, 


468  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  Decem 
ber, 

And  each   separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost 
upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow  ;  —  vainly  I  had  sought 
to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the 
lost  Lenore,  10 

For  the   rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore : 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

The  Raven  does  not  in  all  probability  represent  the  highest 
reaches  of  its  author's  art  (there  are  lines  in  Israfel,  in  the 
lyric  To  Helen,  and  in  the  exquisite  stanzas  To  One  in  Paradise 
that  are  unmatched  in  The  Raven),  but  the  felicitous  moralizing 
of  the  one  poem  and  the  dramatic  interest  and  weird  intensity  of 
the  other  abundantly  justify  the  public  in  its  preferences.  Poe's 
art,  too,  if  not  seen  at  its  highest  in  The  Raven,  receives  therein 
its  most  adequate  and  characteristic  expression  outside  of  Ula- 
Itane,  which  the  public  has  never  taken  quite  seriously.  The 
student  may  be  referred  to  a  chapter  in  Professor  C.  A.  Smith's 
Repetition  and  Parallelism  in  English  Verse  for  full  details  with 
regard  to  style.  Professor  Smith  brings  out  admirably  Poe's 
kinship  with  the  balladists,  and  gives  a  satisfactory  account  of 
his  use  of  that  time-honored  poetic  artifice,  the  repetend,  —  an 
artifice  which  is  as  plainly  seen  in  the 

Abstineaa  avidas,  Mora  precor  atra,  tnumm. 
Abstineas,  Mors  atra,  precor, 

of  Tibullus  (El.  I,  iii.)  as  in  any  stanza  of  The  Raven. 

10.  Burger  wrote  a  ballad  of  Lenore  from  which  Poe  may 
have  got  this  name.  The  idea  of  celebrating,  whether  in  verse  or 
in  melancholy  sentiment,  the  death  of  a  beautiful  young  woman 
seems  to  have  been  with  him  from  boyhood,  and  in  his  manhood 
he  maintained  that  such  a  subject  "  is,  unquestionably,  the  most 
poetical  topic  in  the  world."  It  was  so  for  him,  at  any  rate, 
both  in  his  verse  and  in  his  prose-poems  such  as  Ligeia  and 
Eleonora. 


THE  RAVEN.  469 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never 

felt  before  •, 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 

repeating  is 

"  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door, 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door: 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger  ;  hesitating  then  no 

longer, 
'*  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 

implore ;  » 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 

rapping, 
And  so  faintly   you  came   tapping,  tapping  at  my 

chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  "  —  here  I  opened 

wide  the  door :  — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there 

wondering,  fearing,  25 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 

dream  before ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word,  "  Lenore  ?  " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 

word,  "  Lenore  :  " 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more.          » 


470  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 

burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than 

before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my 

window  lattice ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 

explore  ; 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery 

explore :  » 

'T  is  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here   I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a 

flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of 

yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped 

or  stayed  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of   lord   or  lady,  perched  above  my 

chamber  door,  40 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door: 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 

smiling 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 

wore,  — 
"Though   thy  crest  be   shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I 

said,  "  art  sure  no  craven,  « 

45.  By  this  and  other  touches  Poe  intended,  as  he  tells  us,  to 
give  his  verses,  for  the  sake  of  contrast, "  an  air  of  the  fantastic, 
approaching  as  nearly  to  the  ludicrous  as  was  admissible."  That 
the  Raven,  though  shorn  like  a  monk,  was  no  coward  is  made 
evident  by  his  cavalier  entrance  into  an  unknown  place. 


THE  RAVEN.  471 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the 
Nightly  shore : 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plu 
tonian  shore !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse 

so  plainly, 
Though  its   answer  little  meaning  —  little  relevancy 

bore ;  so 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 

being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed   with   seeing  bird  above  his 

chamber  door, 
Bird  or  beast  upon   the   sculptured  bust  above  his 

chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the   Raven,  sitting  lonely  on   the  placid  bust, 

spoke  only  M 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour, 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then 

he  fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  —  "  Other  friends 

have  flown  before ; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have 

flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore."    « 

47.  Pluto  was  god  of  Hades  —  of  the  infernal  regions  — 
hence  the  epithet  conveys  the  ideas  of  darkness  and  mystery. 
Cf .  Horace,  Cam.  I,  iv. :  "  Et  domns  ezilis  Plutonia." 

49.  Ravens  make  very  intelligent  pets  (cf.  Barndby  Rudge) 
and  can  be  taught  to  imitate  speech  somewhat.  As  an  omen  of 
ill  fortune  the  bird  figures  frequently  in  English  literature  from 


472  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly 

spoken, 
**  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore : 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 

bore  a 

Of  '  Never  —  nevermore.' " 

But  the  Eaven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 

and  bust  and  door ; 
Then,  upon  the   velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to 

linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 

yore,  70 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 

bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  ex 
pressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 
bosom's  core ; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 
reclining  75 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light 
gloated  o'er, 

the  time  of  the  Anglo  Saxon  poets,  who  continually  refer  to  it  in 
their  martial  verses. 

64.  Bur  den = refrain. 

76.  That  is,  cast  a  sidelong  ray  over,  —  unless  Foe  wished  to 


THE  RAVEN.  473 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining   with  the  lamp-light 
gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  I 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from 

an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the 

tufted  floor.  so 

"Wretch,"  I  cried,. "thy  God  hath  lent  thee  —by 

these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of 

Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this 

lost  Lenore ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

••Prophet!  "  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil !  as 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 
here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en 
chanted  — 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I 
implore : 

Is  there  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  —  tell 
me,  I  implore  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore."      *> 

attribute  to  the  light  some  furtive  or  sinister  character.     From 
any  point  of  view  the  use  of  the  word  is  rather  questionable. 

83.  Nepenthe,  a  "  sorrow-dispelling  "  drink  mentioned  in  the 
Odyssey  (iv.  219-30).    Cf.  Comus,  11.  675-6  :  — 

"  That  Nepenthes  which  the  wife  of  Theme 
In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  Helena." 

89.  Balm  In  Gilead.     See  Century  Dictionary  and  cf.  Jere 
miah  viii.  22:  "Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead?  is  there  no 
cian  there  ?  " 


474  EDGAR  ALLAN  FOB. 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  —  prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we 

both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore : 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden   whom   the  angels 

name  Lenore  ! "  95 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend !  "  I 
shrieked,  upstarting: 

"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plu 
tonian  shore! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken !  quit  the  bust  above 
my  door !  100 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 
from  off  my  door !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 
door ; 

93.  Aidenn,  some  distant  place  of  pleasure,  —  Eden  or  Aden, 
of  which  it  is  a  fanciful  variant. 

96.  Poe  tells  us  in  his  curious  account  of  the  evolution  of  his 
poem  that  this  stanza  was  the  first  that  he  wrote  out. 

101.  "  It  will  be  observed,"  says  Poe,  "  that  the  words  '  from 
out  my  heart '  involve  the  first  metaphorical  expression  in  the 
poem.  .  .  .  The  reader  begins  now  to  regard  the  Raven  as  em 
blematical  "  ["  of  Mournful  and  Never-ending  Remembrance  ""]. 


THE  RAVEN.  475 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that 
is  dreaming,  ioe 

And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his 
shadow  on  the  floor  : 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 
on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore  I 


476  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER1 

Son  CGBUT  eat  on  luth  suspends  ; 
Sitot  qu'on  le  touche  il  rdsonne. 

Stranger? 

DuBING  the  whole  of  a  dull,  dark,  and  soundless 
day  in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  when  the  clouds  hung 
oppressively  low  in  the  heavens,  I  had  been  passing 
alone,  on  horseback,3  through  a  singularly  dreary  tract 
of  country ;  and  at  length  found  myself,  as  the  shades 
of  the  evening  drew  on,  within  view  of  the  melancholy 
House  of  Usher.  I  know  not  how  it  was,  but,  with 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  building,  a  sense  of  insuffer 
able  gloom  pervaded  my  spirit.  I  say  insufferable ; 

1  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  was  first  published  in  Burton's 
Gentleman's  Magazine  for  September,  1839,  t.  e.,  just  one  yeax 
after  the  appearance  of  the  weird  tale  usually  coupled  with  it,  — 
Ligeia.  The  latter  story  seems  to  have  been  Poe's  favorite,  but 
the  public  has  on  the  whole  preferred  the  House  of  Usher.  Both 
represent  Foe's  morbid  but  etherealized  supernaturalisro  at  its 
height;  yet,  while  Ligeia  is  perhaps  stronger  in  direct  personal 
appeal,  and  is  thus  a  more  characteristic  product  of  its  author's 
intense  poetic  subjectivity,  Usher  is  probably  superior  in  artistic 
evolution,  and  in  the  perfect  concord  of  its  haunting  harmonies 
of  sound  and  color.  Foe  would  have  made  a  name  for  himself 
in  literature  had  he  written  merely  The  Purloined  Letter  and 
the  Descent  into  the  Maelstrom  ;  when,  however,  we  consider  that 
he  is  likewise  the  author  of  Usher,  Ligeia,  The  Masque  of  the 
Red  Death,  and  Shadow,  we  must  concede  that,  even  without  his 
poetry,  he  would  have  won  for  himself  not  merely  a  position  in 
literature,  but  a  place  high  and  apart  and  practically  inaccessible. 

3  "  His  heart  is  a  suspended  lute;  as  soon  as  it  is  touched  it 
resounds."  J.  P.  de  Be'ranger  (1780-1857)  was  a  very  popular 
French  lyric  poet  of  democratic  proclivities. 

*  It  is  amusing  to  find  Poe  giving  his  fine  tale  the  cachet  of 
6.  P.  R.  James,  whose  habit  of  opening  his  stories  with  a  solitary 
horseman  has  been  much  ridiculed. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    477 

for  the  feeling  was  unrelieved  by  any  of  that  half- 
pleasurable,  because  poetic,  sentiment  with  which  the 
mind  usually  receives  even  the  sternest  natural  images 
of  the  desolate  or  terrible.  I  looked  upon  the  scene 
before  me  —  upon  the  mere  house,  and  the  simple 
landscape  features  of  the  domain,  upon  the  bleak 
walls,  upon  the  vacant  eye-like  windows,  upon  a  few 
rank  sedges,  and  upon  a  few  white  trunks  of  decayed 
trees  —  with  an  utter  depression  of  soul  which  I  can 
compare  to  no  earthly  sensation  more  properly  than  to 
the  after-dream  of  the  reveler  upon  opium  :  the  bitter 
lapse  into  every-day  life,  the  hideous  dropping  off  of 
the  veil.  There  was  an  iciness,  a  sinking,  a  sickening 
of  the  heart,  an  unredeemed  dreariness  of  thought, 
which  no  goading  of  the  imagination  could  torture  into 
aught  of  the  sublime.  What  was  it  —  I  paused  to 
think  —  what  was  it  that  so  unnerved  me  in  the  con 
templation  of  the  House  of  Usher  ?  It  was  a  mystery 
all  insoluble ;  nor  could  I  grapple  with  the  shadowy 
fancies  that  crowded  upon  me  as  I  pondered.  I  was 
forced  to  fall  back  upon  the  unsatisfactory  conclusion 
that  while,  beyond  doubt,  there  are  combinations  of 
very  simple  natural  objects  which  have  the  power 
of  thus  affecting  us,  still  the  analysis  of  this  power 
lies  among  considerations  beyond  our  depth.  It  was 
possible,  I  reflected,  that  a  mere  different  arrange 
ment  of  the  particulars  of  the  scene,  of  the  details  of 
the  picture,  would  be  sufficient  to  modify,  or  perhaps 
to  annihilate,  its  capacity  for  sorrowful  impression,1 
and,  acting  upon  this  idea,  I  reined  my  horse  to  the 
precipitous  brink  of  a  black  and  lurid  tarn  2  that  lay 

1  Poe  means  "for  producing  sorrowful  impressions."  The 
word  may  be  used,  however,  in  an  active  sense. 

a  A  small  mountain  lake,  generally  one  that  has  no  visible 
feeders.  Poe  is  fond  of  this  poetic  word. 


478  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

in  unruffled  lustre  by  the  dwelling,  and  gazed  down — 
but  with  a  shudder  even  more  thrilling  than  before 

—  upon  the  remodeled  and  inverted  images  of  the 
gray  sedge,  and  the  ghastly  tree-stems,  and  the  vacant 
and  eye-like  windows. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mansion  of  gloom  I  now  pro 
posed  to  myself  a  sojourn  of  some  weeks.  Its  pro 
prietor,  Roderick  Usher,  had  been  one  of  my  boon 
companions  in  boyhood ;  but  many  years  had  elapsed 
since  our  last  meeting.  A  letter,  however,  had  lately 
reached  me  in  a  distant  part  of  the  country  —  a  letter 
from  him  —  which  in  its  wildly  importunate  nature 
had  admitted  of  no  other  than  a  personal  reply.  The 
MS.  gave  evidence  of  nervous  agitation.  The  writer 
spoke  of  acute  bodily  illness,  of  a  mental  disorder 
which  oppressed  him,  and  of  an  earnest  desire  to  see 
me,  as  his  best  and  indeed  his  only  personal  friend, 
with  a  view  of  attempting,  by  the  cheerfulness  of  my 
society,  some  alleviation  of  his  malady.  It  was  the 
manner  in  which  all  this,  and  much  more,  was  said  — - 
it  was  the  apparent  heart  that  went  with  his  request 

—  which  allowed  me  no  room  for  hesitation ;  and  I 
accordingly  obeyed  forthwith  what  I  still  considered 
a  very  singular  summons. 

Although  as  boys  we  had  been  even  intimate  asso 
ciates,  yet  I  really  knew  little  of  my  friend.  His 
reserve  had  been  always  excessive  and  habitual.  I 
was  aware,  however,  that  his  very  ancient  family  had 
been  noted,  time  out  of  mind,  for  a  peculiar  sensi 
bility  of  temperament,  displaying  itself,  through  long 
ages,  in  many  works  of  exalted  art,  and  manifested  of 
late  in  repeated  deeds  of  munificent  yet  unobtrusive 
charity,  as  well  as  in  a  passionate  devotion  to  the 
intricacies,  perhaps  even  more  than  to  the  orthodox 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.   479 

and  easily  recognizable  beauties,  of  musical  science. 
I  had  learned,  too,  the  very  remarkable  fact  that  the 
stem  of  the  Usher  race,  all  time-honored  as  it  was,  had 
put  forth  at  no  period  any  enduring  branch  ;  in  other 
words,  that  the  entire  family  lay  in  the  direct  line  of 
descent,  and  had  always,  with  a  very  trifling  and  very 
temporary  variation,  so  lain.1  It  was  this  deficiency, 
I  considered,  while  running  over  in  thought  the  per 
fect  keeping  of  the  character  of  the  premises  with  the 
accredited  character  of  the  people,  and  while  speculat 
ing  upon  the  possible  influence  which  the  one,  in  the 
long  lapse  of  centuries,  might  have  exercised  upon  the 
other,  —  it  was  this  deficiency,  perhaps,  of  collateral 
issue,  and  the  consequent  undeviating  transmission 
from  sire  to  son  of  the  patrimony  with  the  name,  which 
had  at  length  so  identified  the  two  as  to  merge  the 
original  title  of  the  estate  in  the  quaint  and  equivocal 
appellation  of  the  "  House  of  Usher,"  —  an  appellation 
which  seemed  to  include,  in  the  minds  of  the  peas 
antry  who  used  it,  both  the  family  and  the  family 
mansion. 

I  have  said  that  the  sole  effect  of  my  somewhat 
childish  experiment,  that  of  looking  down  within  the 
tarn,  had  been  to  deepen  the  first  singular  impression. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  consciousness  of  the 
rapid  increase  of  my  superstition  —  for  why  should 
I  not  so  term  it  ?  —  served  mainly  to  accelerate  the 
increase  itself.  Such,  I  have  long  known,  is  the  para 
doxical  2  law  of  all  sentiments  having  terror  as  a  basis. 
And  it  might  have  been  for  this  reason  only,  that, 

1  Notice  the  emphatic  periodicity  of  this  sentence,  as  well  as 
the  loose  use  of  "  people  "  in  the  sentence  that  follows. 

1  That  is,  apparently  absurd,  yet  on  investigation  proved  to 
be  trne. 


480  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

when  I  again  uplifted  my  eyes  to  the  house  itself 
from  its  image  in  the  pool,  there  grew  in  my  mind  a 
strange  fancy,  —  a  fancy  so  ridiculous,  indeed,  that  I 
but  mention  it  to  show  the  vivid  force  of  the  sensa 
tions  which  oppressed  me.  I  had  so  worked  upon  my 
imagination  as  really  to  believe  that  about  the  whole 
mansion  and  domain  there  hung  an  atmosphere  pecu 
liar  to  themselves  and  their  immediate  vicinity :  an 
atmosphere  which  had  no  affinity  with  the  air  of 
heaven,  but  which  had  reeked  up  from  the  decayed 
trees,  and  the  gray  wall,  and  the  silent  tarn  ;  a  pesti 
lent  and  mystic  vapor,  dull,  sluggish,  faintly  discern 
ible,  and  leaden-hued. 

Shaking  off  from  my  spirit  what  must  have  been 
a  dream,  I  scanned  more  narrowly  the  real  aspect  of 
the  building.  Its  principal  feature  seemed  to  be  that 
of  an  excessive  antiquity.  The  discoloration  of  ages 
had  been  great.  Minute  fungi  overspread  the  whole 
exterior,  hanging  in  a  fine  tangled  web-work  from  the 
eaves.  Yet  all  this  was  apart  from  any  extraordi 
nary  dilapidation.  No  portion  of  the  masonry  had 
fallen ;  and  there  appeared  to  be  a  wild  inconsistency 
between  its  still  perfect  adaptation  of  parts  and  the 
crumbling  condition  of  the  individual  stones.  In  this 
there  was  much  that  reminded  me  of  the  specious  to 
tality  of  old  wood-work  which  has  rotted  for  long  years 
in  some  neglected  vault,  with  no  disturbance  from  the 
breath  of  the  external  air.  Beyond  this  indication  of 
extensive  decay,  however,  the  fabric  gave  little  token 
of  instability.  Perhaps  the  eye  of  a  scrutinizing  ob 
server  might  have  discovered  a  barely  perceptible  fis 
sure,  which,  extending  from  the  roof  of  the  building  in 
front,  made  its  way  down  the  wall  in  a  zigzag  direction, 
until  it  became  lost  in  the  sullen  waters  of  the  tarn. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    481 

Noticing  these  things,  I  rode  over  a  short  causeway 
to  the  house.  A  servant  in  waiting  took  my  horse, 
and  I  entered  the  Gothic  archway  of  the  hall.  A 
valet,  of  stealthy  step,  thence  conducted  me  in  silence 
through  many  dark  and  intricate  passages  in  my 
progress  to  the  studio  of  his  master.  Much  that  I 
encountered  on  the  way  contributed,  I  know  not  how, 
to  heighten  the  vague  sentiments  of  which  I  have  al 
ready  spoken.  While  the  objects  around  me  —  while 
the  carvings  of  the  ceiling,  the  sombre  tapestries  of 
the  walls,  the  ebon  blackness  of  the  floors,  and  the 
phantasmagoric 1  armorial  trophies  which  rattled  as  I 
strode,  were  but  matters  to  which,  or  to  such  as  which, 
I  had  been  accustomed  from  my  infancy,  —  while  I 
hesitated  not  to  acknowledge  how  familiar  was  all 
this,  I  still  wondered  to  find  how  unfamiliar  were 
the  fancies  which  ordinary  images  were  stirring  up. 
On  one  of  the  staircases  I  met  the  physician  of  the 
family.  His  countenance,  I  thought,  wore  a  min 
gled  expression  of  low  cunning  and  perplexity.  He 
accosted  me  with  trepidation  and  passed  on.  The 
valet  now  threw  open  a  door  and  ushered  me  into  the 
presence  of  his  master. 

The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  very  large 
and  lofty.  The  windows  were  long,  narrow,  and 
pointed,  and  at  so  vast  a  distance  from  the  black 
oaken  floor  as  to  be  altogether  inaccessible  from  within. 
Feeble  gleams  of  encrimsoned  light  made  their  way 
through  the  trellised  panes,  and  served  to  render 
sufficiently  distinct  the  more  prominent  objects  around ; 
the  eye,  however,  struggled  in  vain  to  reach  the  re 
moter  angles  of  the  chamber,  or  the  recesses  of  the 
vaulted  and  fretted  ceiling.  Dark  draperies  hung 
1  This  is  one  of  Poe's  favorite  words. 


482  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

upon  the  walls.  The  general  furniture  was  profuse, 
comfortless,  antique,  and  tattered.  Many  books  and 
musical  instruments  lay  scattered  about,  but  failed  to 
give  any  vitality  to  the  scene.  I  felt  that  I  breathed 
an  atmosphere  of  sorrow.  An  air  of  stern,  deep,  and 
irredeemable  gloom  hung  over  and  pervaded  all.1 

Upon  my  entrance,  Usher  arose  from  a  sofa  on 
which  he  had  been  lying  at  full  length,  and  greeted 
me  with  a  vivacious  warmth  which  had  much  in  it, 
I  at  first  thought,  of  an  overdone  cordiality,  —  of  the 
constrained  effort  of  the  ennuye  man  of  the  world. 
A  glance,  however,  at  his  countenance,  convinced  me 
of  his  perfect  sincerity.  We  sat  down  ;  and  for  some 
moments,  while  he  spoke  not,  I  gazed  upon  him  with 
a  feeling  half  of  pity,  half  of  awe.  Surely  man  had 
never  before  so  terribly  altered,  in  so  brief  a  period, 
as  had  Roderick  Usher !  It  was  with  difficulty  that  I 
oould  bring  myself  to  admit  the  identity  of  the  wan 
being  before  me  with  the  companion  of  my  early  boy 
hood.  Yet  the  character  of  his  face  had  been  at  all 
times  remarkable.  A  cadaverousness  of  complexion ; 
an  eye  large,  liquid,  and  luminous  beyond  comparison  ; 
lips  somewhat  thin  and  very  pallid,  but  of  a  surpass 
ingly  beautiful  curve ;  a  nose  of  a  delicate  Hebrew 
model,2  but  with  a  breadth  of  nostril  unusual  in  sim 
ilar  formations ;  a  finely-moulded  chin,  speaking,  in 
its  want  of  prominence,  of  a  want  of  moral  energy ; 

1  Poe  does  not  here  indulge  himself,  as  in  Ligeia  and  the 
Red  Death,  in  describing  a  bizarre  luxury  which  he  had  certainly 
had  little  opportunity  of  enjoying  in  a  concrete  fashion.  He 
has  been  working  up  to  a  description  of  Usher,  and  to  that,  like 
a  true  artist,  he  devotes  his  powers. 

3  "  I  looked  at  the  delicate  outlines  of  the  nose,  and  nowhere 
but  in  the  graceful  medallions  of  the  Hebrews  had  I  beheld  a 
similar  perfection."  Ligeia. 


THE  FALL   OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    483 

hair  of  a  more  than  web-like  softness  and  tenuity,  — 
these  features,  with  an  inordinate  expansion  above  the 
regions  of  the  temple,  made  up  altogether  a  counte 
nance  not  easily  to  be  forgotten.  And  now  in  the 
mere  exaggeration  of  the  prevailing  character  of  these 
features,  and  of  the  expression  they  were  wont  to  con 
vey,  lay  so  much  of  change  that  I  doubted  to  whom  I 
spoke.  The  now  ghastly  pallor  of  the  skin,  and  the 
now  miraculous  lustre  of  the  eye,  above  all  things 
startled  and  even  awed  me.  The  silken  hair,  too,  had 
been  suffered  to  grow  all  unheeded,  and  as,  in  its  wild 
gossamer  texture,  it  floated  rather  than  fell  about  the 
face,  I  could  not,  even  with  effort,  connect  its  ara 
besque  expression  with  any  idea  of  simple  humanity. 

In  the  manner  of  my  friend  I  was  at  once  struck 
with  an  incoherence,  an  inconsistency ;  and  I  soon 
found  this  to  arise  from  a  series  of  feeble  and  futile 
struggles  to  overcome  an  habitual  trepidancy,  an  ex 
cessive  nervous  agitation.  For  something  of  this 
nature  I  had  indeed  been  prepared,  no  less  by  hia 
letter  than  by  reminiscences  of  certain  boyish  traits, 
and  by  conclusions  deduced  from  his  peculiar  physical 
conformation  and  temperament.  His  action  was  alter 
nately  vivacious  and  sullen.  His  voice  varied  rapidly 
from  a  tremulous  indecision  (when  the  animal  spirits 
seemed  utterly  in  abeyance)  to  that  species  of  ener 
getic  concision  —  that  abrupt,  weighty,  unhurried,  and 
hollow  -  sounding  enunciation,  that  leaden,  self-bal 
anced,  and  perfectly  modulated  guttural  utterance  — 
which  may  be  observed  in  the  lost  drunkard,  or  the 
irreclaimable  eater  of  opium,  during  the  periods  of  his 
most  intense  excitement. 

It  was  thus  that  he  spoke  of  the  object  of  my  visit, 


484  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

of  his  earnest  desire  to  see  me,  and  of  the  solace  he 
expected  me  to  afford  him.  He  entered  at  some 
length  into  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  nature  of  his 
malady.  It  was,  he  said,  a  constitutional  and  a  family 
evil,  and  one  for  which  he  despaired  to  find  a  remedy, 
—  a  mere  nervous  affection,  he  immediately  added, 
which  would  undoubtedly  soon  pass  off.  It  displayed 
itself  in  a  host  of  unnatural  sensations.  Some  of 
these,  as  he  detailed  them,  interested  and  bewildered 
me;  although,  perhaps,  the  terms  and  the  general 
manner  of  the  narration  had  their  weight.  He  suf 
fered  much  from  a  morbid  acuteness  of  the  senses ; 
the  most  insipid  food  was  alone  endurable  ;  he  could 
wear  only  garments  of  certain  texture  ;  the  odors  of 
all  flowers  were  oppressive ;  his  eyes  were  tortured 
by  even  a  faint  light ;  and  there  were  but  peculiar 
sounds,  and  these  from  stringed  instruments,  which 
did  not  inspire  him  with  horror. 

To  an  anomalous  species  of  terror  I  found  him  a 
bounden1  slave.  "I  shall  perish,"  said  he,  "I  must 
perish  in  this  deplorable  folly.  Thus,  thus,  and  not 
otherwise,  shall  I  be  lost.  I  dread  the  events  of  the 
future,  not  in  themselves,  but  in  their  results.  I 
shudder  at  the  thought  of  any,  even  the  most  trivial, 
incident,  which  may  operate  upon  this  intolerable 
agitation  of  soul.  I  have,  indeed,  no  abhorrence  of 
danger,  except  in  its  absolute  effect,  —  in  terror.  In 
this  unnerved,  in  this  pitiable  condition,  I  feel  that 
the  period  will  sooner  or  later  arrive  when  I  must 
abandon  life  and  reason  together  in  some  struggle 
with  the  grim  phantasm,  FEAR." 

I    learned    moreover    at    intervals,    and    through 

1  This  form  is  now  archaic,  save  in  the  familiar  phrase 
"bounden  duty."  Foe  uses  the  same  expression  in  Ligcia. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.  485 

broken  and  equivocal  hints,  another  singular  feature 
of  his  mental  condition.  He  was  enchained  by  certain 
superstitious  impressions  in  regard  to  the  dwelling 
which  he  tenanted,  and  whence  for  many  years  he 
had  never  ventured  forth,  in  regard  to  an  influence 
whose  supposititious  force  was  conveyed  in  terms  too 
shadowy  here  to  be  restated,  —  an  influence  which 
some  peculiarities  in  the  mere  form  and  substance  of 
his  family  mansion  had,  by  dint  of  long  sufferance, 
he  said,  obtained  over  his  spirit ;  an  effect  which  the 
physique  of  the  gray  walls  and  turrets,  and  of  the  dim 
tarn  into  which  they  all  looked  down,  had  at  length 
brought  about  upon  the  morale  of  his  existence. 

He  admitted,  however,  although  with  hesitation, 
that  much  of  the  peculiar  gloom  which  thus  afflicted 
him  could  be  traced  to  a  more  natural  and  far  more 
palpable  origin,  —  to  the  severe  and  long-continued 
illness,  indeed  to  the  evidently  approaching  dissolu 
tion,  of  a  tenderly  beloved  sister,  his  sole  companion 
for  long  years,  his  last  and  only  relative  on  earth. 
"  Her  decease,"  he  said,  with  a  bitterness  which  I  can 
never  forget,  "  would  leave  him  (him,  the  hopeless  and 
the  frail)  the  last  of  the  ancient  race  of  the  Ushers." 
While  he  spoke,  the  lady  Madeline l  (for  so  was  she 
called)  passed  slowly  through  a  remote  portion  of  the 
apartment,  and,  without  having  noticed  my  presence, 
disappeared.  I  regarded  her  with  an  utter  astonish 
ment  not  unmingled  with  dread,  and  yet  I  found  it> 

1  The  student  will  find  it  interesting  to  make  a  comparative 
examination  of  Foe's  shadowy,  high-born  heroines  with  their 
superlative,  uncommon  characteristics  of  mind  and  body,  and 
their  melodious,  unfamiliar  names,  —  of  his  Madelines,  and  Li- 
geias,  and  Berenices,  and  Eleonoras,  and  Morellas,  and  Lenores. 
All  seem  to  have  sprung  from  a  single  prototype. 


486  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

impossible  to  account  for  such  feelings.  A  sensa 
tion  of  stupor  oppressed  me,  as  my  eyes  followed 
her  retreating  steps.  When  a  door,  at  length,  closed 
upon  her,  my  glance  sought  instinctively  and  eagerlj 
the  countenance  of  the  brother ;  but  he  had  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  I  could  only J  perceive  that 
a  far  more  than  ordinary  wanness  had  overspread  the 
emaciated  fingers  through  which  trickled  many  pas 
sionate  tears. 

The  disease  of  the  lady  Madeline  had  long  baf 
fled  the  skill  of  her  physicians.  A  settled  apathy, 
a  gradual  wasting  away  of  the  person,  and  frequent 
although  transient  affections  of  a  partially  cataleptical 
character,  were  the  unusual  diagnosis.  Hitherto  she 
had  steadily  borne  up  against  the  pressure  of  her 
malady,  and  had  not  betaken  herself  finally  to  bed ; 
but,  on  the  closing-in  of  the  evening  of  my  arrival 
at  the  house,  she  succumbed  (as  her  brother  told  me 
at  night  with  inexpressible  agitation)  to  the  prostrat 
ing  power  of  the  destroyer ;  and  I  learned  that  the 
glimpse  I  had  obtained  of  her  person  would  thus  prob 
ably  be  the  last  I  should  obtain,  —  that  the  lady,  at 
least  while  living,  would  be  seen  by  me  no  more. 

For  several  days  ensuing,  her  name  was  unmentioned 
by  either  Usher  or  myself  ;  and  during  this  period  I 
was  busied  in  earnest  endeavors  to  alleviate  the  mel 
ancholy  of  my  friend.  We  painted  and  read  together  ; 
or  I  listened,  as  if  in  a  dream,  to  the  wild  improvisa 
tions  2  of  his  speaking  guitar.  And  thus,  as  a  closer 
and  still  closer  intimacy  admitted  me  more  unre 
servedly  into  the  recesses  of  his  spirit,  the  more 
bitterly  did  I  perceive  the  futility  of  all  attempt  at 
cheering  a  mind  from  which  darkness,  as  if  an  inherent 

1  Is  this  adverb  properly  placed  ?       *  See  page  54,  note  1. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.   487 

positive  quality,  poured  forth  upon  all  objects  of  the 
moral  and  physical  universe,  in  one  unceasing  radia 
tion  of  gloom. 

I  shall  ever  bear  about  me  a  memory  of  the  many 
solemn  hours  I  thus  spent  alone  with  the  master  of 
the  House  of  Usher.  Yet  I  should  fail  in  any  at 
tempt  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  exact  character  of  the 
studies,  or  of  the  occupations,  in  which  he  involved 
me,  or  led  me  the  way.  An  excited  and  highly  dis 
tempered  ideality  threw  a  sulphureous  lustre  over  all. 
His  long,  improvised  dirges  will  ring  forever  in  my 
ears.  Among  other  things,  I  hold  painfully  in  mind 
a  certain  singular  perversion  and  amplification  of  the 
wild  air  of  the  last  waltz  of  Von  Weber.1  From  the 
paintings  over  which  his  elaborate  fancy  brooded,  and 
which  grew,  touch  by  touch,  into  vaguenesses  at  which 
I  shuddered  the  more  thrillingly  because  I  shuddered 
knowing  not  why,  —  from  these  paintings  (vivid  as 
their  images  now  are  before  me)  I  would  in  vain 
endeavor  to  educe  more  than  a  small  portion  which 
should  lie  within  the  compass  of  merely  written  words. 
By  the  utter  simplicity,  by  the  nakedness  of  his  de 
signs,  he  arrested  and  overawed  attention.  If  ever 
mortal  painted  an  idea,  that  mortal  was  Roderick 
Usher.  For  me  at  least,  in  the  circumstances  then 
surrounding  me,  there  arose,  out  of  the  pure  abstrac 
tions  which  the  hypochondriac  contrived  to  throw 
upon  his  canvas,  an  intensity  of  intolerable  awe,  no 
shadow  of  which  felt  I  ever  yet  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  certainly  glowing  yet  too  concrete  reveries  of 
Fuseli.2 

»  Karl  Maria,  Baron  von  Weber  (1786-1826),  the  celebrated 
German  composer. 

1  Henry    Fuseli  (1741-1825)   born  in  Zurich  as  Heinrich 


488  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

One  of  the  phantasmagoric  conceptions  of  my 
friend,  partaking  not  so  rigidly  of  the  spirit  of  ab 
straction,  may  be  shadowed  forth,  although  feebly,  in 
words.  A  small  picture  presented  the  interior  of  an 
immensely  long  and  rectangular  vault  or  tunnel,  with 
low  walls,  smooth,  white,  and  without  interruption  or 
device.  Certain  accessory  points  of  the  design  served 
well  to  convey  the  idea  that  this  excavation  lay  at  an 
exceeding  depth  below  the  surface  of  the  earth.  No 
outlet  was  observed  in  any  portion  of  its  vast  extent, 
and  no  torch,  or  other  artificial  source  of  light,  was 
discernible  ;  yet  a  flood  of  intense  rays  rolled  through 
out,  and  bathed  the  whole  in  a  ghastly  and  inappro 
priate  splendor. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  that  morbid  condition  of  the 
auditory  nerve  which  rendered  all  music  intolerable 
to  the  sufferer,  with  the  exception  of  certain  effects  of 
stringed  instruments.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  narrow 
limits  to  which  he  thus  confined  himself  upon  the 
guitar,  which  gave  birth,  in  great  measure,  to  the 
fantastic  character  of  his  performances.  But  the  fer 
vid  facility  of  his  impromptus  could  not  be  so  ac 
counted  for.  They  must  have  been,  and  were,  in  the 
notes  as  well  as  in  the  words  of  his  wild  fantasias 
(for  he  not  unfrequently  accompanied  himself  with 
xhymed  verbal  improvisations),  the  result  of  that 
intense  mental  collectedness  and  concentration  to 
which  I  have  previously  alluded  as  observable  only  in 
particular  moments  of  the  highest  artificial  excitement. 
The  words  of  one  of  these  rhapsodies  I  have  easily 
remembered.  I  was,  perhaps,  the  more  forcibly  im 
pressed  with  it  as  he  gave  it,  because,  in  the  under  or 

Fnessly,  —  an  artist  of  great  power,  and  professor  of  painting  at 
the  Royal  Academy  in  London. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    489 

mystic  current  of  its  meaning,  I  fancied  that  I  per 
ceived,  and  for  the  first  time,  a  full  consciousness,  on 
the  part  of  Usher,  of  the  tottering  of  his  lofty  reason 
upon  her  throne.  The  verses,  which  were  entitled 
"  The  Haunted  Palace," l  ran  very  nearly,  if  not  ac 
curately,  thus :  — 


In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion, 

It  stood  there ; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 


Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago), 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 


Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 

Spirits  moving  musically 
To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 

1  These  verses  were  first  published  in  the  Baltimore  Museum 
for  April,  1839.  They  rank  among  the  best  of  Poe's  poems,  and 
fit  their  prose  setting  so  well  that,  as  Mr.  Stedman  has  remarked, 
it  might  almost  seem  that  the  tale  was  written  to  set  off  the 
poem.  Some  critics  have  seen  in  the  verses  a  symbolical  descrip 
tion  of  the  ravages  wrought  by  drink  in  the  poet's  own  char 
acter. 


490  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Round  about  s  throne,  where  sitting, 

Porphyrogene,1 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 


IV. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king.9 

V. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate; 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate  !) 
And,  round  about  his  home,  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 


And  travellers  now  within  that  valley 

Through  the  red-litten  8  windows  seo 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody ; 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door, 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 

*  That  is,  born  in  the  purple,  —  of  royal  birth. 

*  "  When  (like  committed  linnets)  I 
With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 
And  glories  of  my  King." 

LOVELACE,  To  Altheafrom  Prison, 

*  Note  the  archaic,  and  so  poetic,  form  of  the  participle. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    491 

I  well  remember  that  suggestions  arising  from  this 
ballad  led  us  into  a  train  of  thought,  wherein  there 
became  manifest  an  opinion  of  Usher's  which  I  men 
tion,  not  so  much  on  account  of  its  novelty  (for  other 
men 1  have  thought  thus)  as  on  account  of  the  perti 
nacity  with  which  he  maintained  it.  This  opinion,  in 
its  general  form,  was  that  of  the  sentience  of  all  vege 
table  things.  But  in  his  disordered  fancy,  the  idea 
had  assumed  a  more  daring  character,  and  trespassed, 
under  certain  conditions,  upon  the  kingdom  of  inor- 
ganization.2  I  lack  words  to  express  the  full  extent 
or  the  earnest  abandon  of  his  persuasion.  The  belief, 
however,  was  connected  (as  I  have  previously  hinted) 
with  the  gray  stones  of  the  home  of  his  forefathers. 
The  conditions  of  the  sentience  had  been  here,  he 
imagined,  fulfilled  in  the  method  of  collocation  of 
these  stones,  —  in  the  order  of  their  arrangement,  as 
well  as  in  that  of  the  many  fungi  which  overspread 
them,  and  of  the  decayed  trees  which  stood  around ; 
above  all,  in  the  long  undisturbed  endurance  of  this 
arrangement,  and  in  its  reduplication  in  the  still 
waters  of  the  tarn.  Its  evidence  —  the  evidence  of 
the  sentience  —  was  to  be  seen,  he  said  (and  I  here 

1  Watson,  Dr.  Percival,  Spall  an  zani,  and  especially  the  Bishop 
of  Llandaff. —  See  Chemical  Essays,  vol.  v.  [Of  the  authors 
mentioned  by  Poe,  Richard  Watson  (1737-1816)  was  the  cele 
brated  Bishop  of  Llandaff,  the  liberal  statesman,  the  opponent 
of  Tom  Paine,  who  early  in  life  was  made  professor  of  chemis 
try  at  Cambridge,  although  he  knew  nothing  of  the  subject, 
and  succeeded  in  writing  very  popularly  about  the  science  ; 
Dr.  James  Gates  Percival  (1795-1856)  was  an  American  poet 
and  scientist  of  great  versatility ;  and  Lazaro  Spallanzani  (1729- 
1799)  was  a  noted  traveler,  collector,  teacher,  and  writer  on 
many  scientific  subjects.] 

*  That  is,  the  mineral  kingdom. 


492  EDGAR    ALLAN  POE. 

started  as  he  spoke),  in  the  gradual  yet  certain  con 
densation  of  an  atmosphere  of  their  own  about  the 
waters  and  the  walls.  The  result  was  discoverable, 
he  added,  in  that  silent  yet  importunate  and  terrible 
influence  which  for  centuries  had  moulded  the  desti 
nies  of  his  family,  and  which  made  him  what  I  now 
saw  him,  —  what  he  was.  Such  opinions  need  no  com 
ment,  and  I  will  make  none. 

Our  books  —  the  books  which  for  years  had  formed 
no  small  portion  of  the  mental  existence  of  the  invalid 
—  were,  as  might  be  supposed,  in  strict  keeping  with 
this  character  of  phantasm.  We  pored  together  over 
such  works  as  the  Ververt  and  Chartreuse  of  Gresset ; 
the  Belphegor  of  Machiavelli ;  the  Heaven  and  Hell 
of  Swedenborg ;  the  Subterranean  Voyage  of  Nicholas 
Klimm  by  Holberg ;  the  Chiromancy  of  Robert  Flud, 
of  Jean  D'Indagine,  and  of  De  la  Chambre  ;  the 
Journey  into  the  Blue  Distance  of  Tieck  ;  and  the 
City  of  the  Sun  of  Campanella.  One  favorite  volume 
was  a  small  octavo  edition  of  the  Directorium  Inquisi- 
torum,  by  the  Dominican  Eymeric  de  Gironne ;  and 
there  were  passages  in  Pomponius  Mela,  about  the  old 
African  Satyrs  and  JEgipans,  over  which  Usher  would 
sit  dreaming  for  hours.  His  chief  delight,  however, 
was  found  in  the  perusal  of  an  exceedingly  rare  and 
curious  book  in  quarto  Gothic,  —  the  manual  of  a  for 
gotten  church,  —  the  Vigilice  Mortuorum  secundum 
Chorum  Ecclesice  MaguntinoB.1 

1  Of  the  books  mentioned  by  Poe,  some  at  least  of  which  he 
probably  never  saw,  as  they  are  inappropriate  to  his  purposes, 
a  brief  account  will  be  sufficient.  Ver-vert  and  Ma  Chartreuse 
are  two  poems  by  Jean  Baptiste  Gresset  (1709-77),  the  former 
of  which  gives  an  amusing  account  of  the  adventures  of  a  pro 
fane  parrot  in  a  convent  of  nuns,  which  brought  upon  the  author 
the  censure  of  the  church.  The  Belfagor  of  the  celebrated  states- 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    493 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  wild  ritual  of  this 
work,  and  of  its  probable  influence  on  the  hypochon 
driac,  when  one  evening,  having  informed  me  ab 
ruptly  that  the  lady  Madeline  was  no  more,  he  stated 
his  intention  of  preserving  her  corpse  for  a  fortnight, 

man  and  writer  Niccolo  Machiavelli  (1469-1527)  is  a  satire 
concerning  marriage,  the  Devil  being  forced  to  admit  that  hell  is 
preferable  to  his  wife's  society.  The  Heaven  and  Hell  of  Eman- 
uel  Swedenborg  (1688-1772),  the  great  Swedish  mystic  and 
founder  of  the  sect  that  bears  his  name,  consists  of  extracts  from 
his  more  important  work,  the  Arcana  Ccdestia.  The  Nicolai 
Klimmi  Iter  Subterraneum  was  a  widely  celebrated  poem  by  the 
great  poet  and  scholar,  Ludwig  Holberg  (born  at  Bergen  in  Nor 
way,  1684,  died  at  Copenhagen,  1754),  who  is  preeminent  among 
the  earlier  Scandinavian  writers  for  his  genius  and  his  erudition. 
Chiromancy  means  divination  by  means  of  the  hand  (palmistry 
applied  to  the  future) ;  and  Poe  refers  to  works  on  physiognomy 
(hardly,  it  would  seem,  to  specific  books  on  chiromancy)  by  the 
English  mystic,  Robert  Fludd  (1574-1637),  and  by  two  conti 
nental  writers  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  respec 
tively.  The  work  of  Ludwig  Tieck  (1773-1853),  the  great 
German  romanticist  to  which  Poe  refers,  may  be  found  in  his 
Works  (1852-54)  vol.  viii.  The  Civitas  iSolis  is  a  celebrated 
sketch  of  an  ideal  state  (cf .  Plato's  Republic  and  Here's  Utopia) 
by  the  great  Italian  philosopher,  Tomaso  Campanella  (1568- 
1639),  whom  the  Inquisition  persecuted  with  horrible  severity. 
The  work  cited,  with  inverted  title,  with  regard  to  this  terrible 
institution,  is  a  minute  account  of  its  methods  by  N.  Eymerich, 
inquisitor-general  for  Castile  in  1356.  Pomponius  Mela  was  a 
Spaniard  who  wrote  a  famous  work  on  geography  (De  Situ  Or- 
bis)  in  the  first  century  A.  D.  (^Egipan,  by  the  way,  is  really 
nothing  but  an  epithet  applied  to  Pan  because  he  guarded  goats.] 
The  Vigilice  Mortuorum  has  not  been  discovered  by  Professoi 
Woodberry  under  the  title  Poe  gives  at  length,  but  books  of  & 
similar  character  exist  which  probably  supplied  Poe  with  a  hint 
for  his  own  title.  The  expression  "  quarto  Gothic  "  means  that 
the  book  was  a  quarto  (t.  e.  one  in  which  the  leaf  is  a  fourth 
part  of  a  sheet),  and  printed  in  an  early  form  of  black- faced 
and  pointed  letters.  (The  epithet  "  Gothic  "  can  hardly  hare 
its  liturgic  use  here.) 


494  EDGAR   ALLAN  POE. 

(previously  to  its  final  interment)  in  one  of  the  nu 
merous  vaults  within  the  main  walls  of  the  building. 
The  worldly  reason,  however,  assigned  for  this  singular 
proceeding  was  one  which  I  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to 
dispute.  The  brother  had  been  led  to  his  resolution 
(so  he  told  me)  by  consideration  of  the  unusual  char 
acter  of  the  malady  of  the  deceased,  of  certain  ob 
trusive  and  eager  inquiries  on  the  part  of  her  medi 
cal  men,  and  of  the  remote  and  exposed  situation  of 
the  burial-ground  of  the  family.  I  will  not  deny  that 
when  I  called  to  mind  the  sinister  countenance  of  the 
person  whom  I  met  upon  the  staircase,  on  the  day  of 
my  arrival  at  the  house,  I  had  no  desire  to  oppose 
what  I  regarded  as  at  best  but  a  harmless,  and  by  no 
means  an  unnatural,  precaution. 

At  the  request  of  Usher,  I  personally  aided  him 
in  the  arrangements  for  the  temporary  entombment. 
The  body  having  been  encoffiued,  we  two  alone  bore 
it  to  its  rest.  The  vault  in  which  we  placed  it  (and 
which  had  been  so  long  unopened  that  our  torches, 
half  smothered  in  its  oppressive  atmosphere,  gave  us 
little  opportunity  for  investigation)  was  small,  damp, 
and  entirely  without  means  of  admission  for  light ; 
lying,  at  great  depth,  immediately  beneath  that  por 
tion  of  the  building  in  which  was  my  own  sleeping 
apartment.  It  had  been  used  apparently,  in  remote 
feudal  times,  for  the  worst  purposes  of  a  donjon-keep, 
and  in  later  days  as  a  place  of  deposit  for  powder, 
or  some  other  highly  combustible  substance,  as  a 
portion  of  its  floor,  and  the  whole  interior  of  a  long 
archway  through  which  we  reached  it,  were  carefully 
sheathed  with  copper.  The  door,  of  massive  iron,  had 
been  also  similarly  protected.  Its  immense  weight 
caused  an  unusually  sharp  grating  sound  as  it  moved 
upon  its  hinges. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    495 

Having  deposited  our  mournful  burden  upon  tres- 
sels  within  this  region  of  horror,  we  partially  turned 
aside  the  yet  unscrewed  lid  of  the  coffin,  and  looked 
upon  the  face  of  the  tenant.  A  striking  similitude 
between  the  brother  and  sister  now  first  arrested  my 
attention  ;  and  Usher,  divining,  perhaps,  my  thoughts, 
murmured  out  some  few  words  from  which  I  learned 
that  the  deceased  and  himself  had  been  twins,  and 
that  sympathies  of  a  scarcely  intelligible  nature  had 
always  existed  between  them.  Our  glances,  however, 
rested  not  long  upon  the  dead,  for  we  could  not 
regard  her  unawed.  The  disease  which  had  thus  en 
tombed  the  lady  in  the  maturity  of  youth,  had  left,  as 
usual  in  all  maladies  of  a  strictly  cataleptical  charac 
ter,  the  mockery  of  a  faint  blush  upon  the  bosom  and 
the  face,  and  that  suspiciously  lingering  smile  upon 
the  lip  which  is  so  terrible  in  death.  We  replaced  and 
screwed  down  the  lid,  and  having  secured  the  door  of 
iron,  made  our  way,  with  toil,  into  the  scarcely  less 
gloomy  apartments  of  the  upper  portion  of  the  house. 

And  now,  some  days  of  bitter  grief  having  elapsed, 
an  observable  change  came  over  the  features  of  the 
mental  disorder  of  my  friend.  His  ordinary  man 
ner  had  vanished.  His  ordinary  occupations  were 
neglected  or  forgotten.  He  roamed  from  chamber  to 
chamber  with  hurried,  unequal,  and  objectless  step. 
The  pallor  of  his  countenance  had  assumed,  if  possi 
ble,  a  more  ghastly  hue,  but  the  luminousness  of  his 
eye  had  utterly  gone  out.  The  once  occasional  hus- 
kiness  of  his  tone  was  heard  no  more ;  and  a  tremu 
lous  quaver,  as  if  of  extreme  terror,  habitually  char 
acterized  his  utterance.  There  were  times,  indeed, 
when  I  thought  his  unceasingly  agitated  mind  was 
laboring  with  some  oppressive  secret,  to  divulge 


496  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

which  he  struggled  for  the  necessary  courage.  At 
times,  again,  I  was  obliged  to  resolve  all  into  the  mere 
inexplicable  vagaries  of  madness,  for  I  beheld  him 
gazing  upon  vacancy  for  long  hours,  in  an  attitude  of 
the  prof  oundest  attention,  as  if  listening  to  some  ima 
ginary  sound.  It  was  no  wonder  that  his  condition 
terrified  —  that  it  infected  me.  I  felt  creeping  upon 
me,  by  slow  yet  certain  degrees,  the  wild  influences  of 
his  own  fantastic  yet  impressive  superstitions. 

It  was,  especially,  upon  retiring  to  bed  late  in  the 
night  of  the  seventh  or  eighth  day  after  the  placing 
of  the  lady  Madeline  within  the  donjon,1  that  I  ex 
perienced  the  full  power  of  such  feelings.  Sleep 
came  not  near  my  couch,  while  the  hours  waned  and 
waned  away.  I  struggled  to  reason  off  the  nervous 
ness  which  had  dominion  over  me.  I  endeavored  to 
believe  that  much  if  not  all  of  what  I  felt  was  due  to 
the  bewildering  influence  of  the  gloomy  furniture  of 
the  room,  —  of  the  dark  and  tattered  draperies  which, 
tortured  into  motion  by  the  breath  of  a  rising  tem 
pest,  swayed  fitfully  to  and  fro  upon  the  walls,  and 
rustled  uneasily  about  the  decorations  of  the  bed. 
But  my  efforts  were  fruitless.  An  irrepressible  tremor 
gradually  pervaded  my  frame;  and  at  length  there 
sat  upon  my  very  heart  an  incubus  of  utterly  causeless 
alarm.  Shaking  this  off  with  a  gasp  and  a  struggle, 
I  uplifted  myself  upon  the  pillows,  and,  peering  ear 
nestly  within  the  intense  darkness  of  the  chamber, 
hearkened  —  I  know  not  why,  except  that  an  instinct 
ive  spirit  prompted  me  —  to  certain  low  and  indefinite 
sounds  which  came,  through  the  pauses  of  the  storm, 
at  long  intervals,  I  knew  not  whence.  Overpowered 

1  The  inner  stronghold  of  a  castle.  The  word  is  a  variant  of 
"dungeon."  See  page  80,  line  27. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    497 

by  an  intense  sentiment  of  horror,  unaccountable  yet 
unendurable,  I  threw  on  my  clothes  with  haste  (for  I 
felt  that  I  should  sleep  no  more  during  the  night), 
and  endeavored  to  arouse  myself  from  the  pitiable 
condition  into  which  I  had  fallen,  by  pacing  rapidly 
to  and  fro  through  the  apartment. 

I  had  taken  but  few  turns  in  this  manner,  when  a 
light  step  on  an  adjoining  staircase  arrested  my  atten 
tion.  I  presently  recognized  it  as  that  of  Usher.  In 
an  instant  afterward  he  rapped  with  a  gentle  touch  at 
my  door,  and  entered,  bearing  a  lamp.  His  counte' 
nance  was,  as  usual,  cadaverously  wan  —  but,  more 
over,  there  was  a  species  of  mad  hilarity  in  his  eyes,  — 
an  evidently  restrained  hysteria  in  his  whole  demeanor. 
His  air  appalled  me  —  but  anything  was  preferable  to 
the  solitude  which  I  had  so  long  endured,  and  I  even 
welcomed  his  presence  as  a  relief. 

"And  you  have  not  seen  it?"  he  said  abruptly, 
after  having  stared  about  him  for  some  moments  in 
silence,  —  "  you  have  not  then  seen  it  ?  —  but,  stay  1 
you  shall."  Thus  speaking,  and  having  carefully 
shaded  his  lamp,  he  hurried  to  one  of  the  casements, 
and  threw  it  freely  open  to  the  storm. 

The  impetuous  fury  of  the  entering  gust  nearly 
lifted  us  from  our  feet.  It  was,  indeed,  a  tempestu 
ous  yet  sternly  beautiful  night,  and  one  wildly  singu 
lar  in  its  terror  and  its  beauty.  A  whirlwind  had 
apparently  collected  its  force  in  our  vicinity,  for  there 
were  frequent  and  violent  alterations  in  the  direction 
of  the  wind  ;  and  the  exceeding  density  of  the  clouds 
(which  hung  so  low  as  to  press  upon  the  turrets  of  the 
house)  did  not  prevent  our  perceiving  the  life-like 
velocity  with  which  they  flew  careering  from  all  points 
against  each  other,  without  passing  away  into  the 


498  EDGAR    ALLAN  POE. 

distance.  I  say  that  even  their  exceeding  density 
did  not  prevent  our  perceiving  this ;  yet  we  had  no 
glimpse  of  the  moon  or  stars,  nor  was  there  any  flash 
ing  forth  of  the  lightning.  But  the  under  surfaces  of 
the  huge  masses  of  agitated  vapor,  as  well  as  all  ter 
restrial  objects  immediately  around  us,  were  glowing 
in  the  unnatural  light  of  a  faintly  luminous  and  dis 
tinctly  visible  gaseous  exhalation  which  hung  about 
and  enshrouded  the  mansion. 

"You  must  not  —  you  shall  not  behold  this!"  said 
I  shudderingly,  to  Usher,  as  I  led  him  with  a  gentle 
violence  from  the  window  to  a  seat.  "  These  appear 
ances,  which  bewilder  you,  are  merely  electrical  phe 
nomena  not  uncommon  —  or  it  may  be  that  they  have 
their  ghastly  origin  in  the  rank  miasma  of  the  tarn. 
Let  us  close  this  casement ;  the  air  is  chilling  and 
dangerous  to  your  frame.  Here  is  one  of  your  favor 
ite  romances.  I  will  read,  and  you  shall  listen;  — 
and  so  we  will  pass  away  this  terrible  night  together." 

The  antique  volume  which  I  had  taken  up  was 
the  "  Mad  Trist "  of  Sir  Launcelot  Canning ; 1  but  I 
had  called  it  a  favorite  of  Usher's  more  in  sad  jest 
than  in  earnest ;  for,  in  truth,  there  is  little  in  its 
uncouth  and  unimaginative  prolixity  which  could  have 
had  interest  for  the  lofty  and  spiritual  ideality  of  my 
friend.  It  was,  however,  the  only  book  immediately 
at  hand ;  and  I  indulged  a  vague  hope  that  the  ex 
citement  which  now  agitated  the  hypochondriac  might 
find  relief  (for  the  history  of  mental  disorder  is  full 
of  similar  anomalies)  even  in  the  extremeness  of  the 
folly  which  I  should  read.  Could  I  have  judged, 
indeed,  by  the  wild,  overstrained  air  of  vivacity  with 

1  Professor  Woodberry  has  not  found  this  book,  and  it  is  more 
than  likely  that  Poe  invented  both  the  title  and  the  extracts. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    499 

which  he  hearkened,  or  apparently  hearkened,  to  the 
words  of  the  tale,  I  might  well  have  congratulated 
myself  upon  the  success  of  my  design. 

I  had  arrived  at  that  well-known  portion  of  the 
story  where  Ethelred,  the  hero  of  the  Trist,  having 
sought  in  vain  for  peaceable  admission  into  the  dwell 
ing  of  the  hermit,  proceeds  to  make  good  an  entrance 
by  force.  Here,  it  will  be  remembered,  the  words  of 
the  narrative  run  thus :  — 

"  And  Ethelred,  who  was  by  nature  of  a  doughty 
heart,  and  who  was  now  mighty  withal  on  account  of 
the  powerfulness  of  the  wine  which  he  had  drunken, 
waited  no  longer  to  hold  parley  with  the  hermit,  who, 
in  sooth,  was  of  an  obstinate  and  malicef  ul  turn,  but, 
feeling  the  rain  upon  his  shoulders,  and  fearing  the 
rising  of  the  tempest,  uplifted  his  mace  outright,  and 
with  blows  made  quickly  room  in  the  plankings  of  the 
door  for  his  gauntleted  hand ;  and  now,  pulling  there 
with  sturdily,  he  so  cracked,  and  ripped,  and  tore  all 
asunder,  that  the  noise  of  the  dry  and  hollow-sounding 
wood  alarumed 1  and  reverberated  throughout  the  for 
est." 

At  the  termination  of  this  sentence  I  started,  and 
for  a  moment  paused ;  for  it  appeared  to  me  (al 
though  I  at  once  concluded  that  my  excited  fancy  had 
deceived  me)  —  it  appeared  to  me  that  from  some 
very  remote  portion  of  the  mansion  there  came,  indis 
tinctly,  to  my  ears,  what  might  have  been  in  its  exact 
similarity  of  character  the  echo  (but  a  stifled  and 
dull  one  certainly)  of  the  very  cracking  and  ripping 
sound  which  Sir  Launcelot  had  so  particularly  de 
scribed.  It  was,  beyond  doubt,  the  coincidence  alone 

1  That  is,  alarmed.  The  whole  tone  of  the  passage  suggests  an 
intentional  heightening  of  what  was  at  best  an  absurd  style. 


500  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

which  had  arrested  my  attention ;  for,  amid  the  rat 
tling  of  the  sashes  of  the  casements,  and  the  ordinary 
commingled  noises  of  the  still  increasing  storm,  the 
sound,  in  itself,  had  nothing,  surely,  which  should 
have  interested  or  disturbed  me.  I  continued  the 
story:  — 

"  But  the  good  champion  Ethelred,  now  entering 
within  the  door,  was  sore  enraged  and  amazed  to  per 
ceive  no  signal  of  the  maliceful  hermit ;  but,  in  the 
stead  thereof,  a  dragon  of  a  scaly  and  prodigious  de 
meanor,  and  of  a  fiery  tongue,  which  sate  in  guard 
before  a  palace  of  gold  with  a  floor  of  silver ;  and 
upon  the  wall  there  hung  a  shield  of  shining  brass 
with  this  legend  en  written :  — 

Who  eutereth  herein,  a  conqueror  hath  bin ; 
Who  slayeth  the  dragon,  the  shield  he  shall  win. 

And  Ethelred  uplifted  his  mace,  and  struck  upon  the 
head  of  the  dragon,  which  fell  before  him,  and  gave 
up  his  pesty  breath,  with  a  shriek  so  horrid  and  harsh, 
and  withal  so  piercing,  that  Ethelred  had  fain l  to  close 
his  ears  with  his  hands  against  the  dreadful  noise  of 
it,  the  like  whereof  was  never  before  heard." 

Here  again  I  paused  abruptly,  and  now  with  a  feel 
ing  of  wild  amazement,  for  there  could  be  no  doubt 
whatever  that,  in  this  instance,  I  did  actually  hear 
(although  from  what  direction  it  proceeded  I  found 
it  impossible  to  say)  a  low  and  apparently  distant. 
but  harsh,  protracted,  and  most  unusual  screaming  01 
grating  sound,  —  the  exact  counterpart  of  what  my 
fancy  had  already  conjured  up  for  the  dragon's  un 
natural  shriek  as  described  by  the  romancer. 

Oppressed  as  I  certainly  was,  upon  the  occurrence 
of  this  second  and  most  extraordinary  coincidence, 
1  Generally  "  was  fain,"  f.  e.  was  glad,  or  content 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.   501 

by  a  thousand  conflicting  sensations,  in  which  wonder 
and  extreme  terror  were  predominant,  I  still  retained 
sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  avoid  exciting,  by  any 
observation,  the  sensitive  nervousness  of  my  com 
panion.  I  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  had 
noticed  the  sounds  in  question ;  although,  assuredly, 
a  strange  alteration  had  during  the  last  few  minutes 
taken  place  in  his  demeanor.  From  a  position  front 
ing  my  own,  he  had  gradually  brought  round  his  chair, 
so  as  to  sit  with  his  face  to  the  door  of  the  chamber  ; 
and  thus  I  could  but  partially  perceive  his  features, 
although  I  saw  that  his  lips  trembled  as  if  he  were 
murmuring  inaudibly.  His  head  had  dropped  upon 
his  breast ;  yet  I  knew  that  he  was  not  asleep,  from 
the  wide  and  rigid  opening  of  the  eye  as  I  caught  a 
glance  of  it  in  profile.  The  motion  of  his  body,  too, 
was  at  variance  with  this  idea,  for  he  rocked  from 
side  to  side  with  a  gentle  yet  constant  and  uniform 
sway.  Having  rapidly  taken  notice  of  all  this,  I 
resumed  the  narrative  of  Sir  Launcelot,  which  thus 
proceeded :  — 

"  And  now  the  champion,  having  escaped  from  the 
terrible  fury  of  the  dragon,  bethinking  himself  of  the 
brazen  shield,  and  of  the  breaking  up  of  the  enchant 
ment  which  was  upon  it,  removed  the  carcass  from  out 
of  the  way  before  him,  and  approached  valorously 
over  the  silver  pavement  of  the  castle  to  where  the 
shield  was  upon  the  wall ;  which  in  sooth  tarried  not 
for  his  full  coming,  but  fell  down  at  his  feet  upon  the 
silver  floor,  with  a  mighty  great  and  terrible  ringing 
sound." 

No  sooner  had  these  syllables  passed  my  lips  than 
—  as  if  a  shield  of  brass  had  indeed,  at  the  moment, 
fallen  heavily  upon  a  floor  of  silver  —  I  became  aware 


502  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

of  a  distinct,  hollow,  metallic,  and  clangorous  yet 
apparently  muffled  reverberation.  Completely  un 
nerved,  I  leaped  to  my  feet ;  but  the  measured  rock 
ing  movement  of  Usher  was  undisturbed.  I  rushed 
to  the  chair  in  which  he  sat.  His  eyes  were  bent 
fixedly  before  him,  and  throughout  his  whole  counte 
nance  there  reigned  a  stony  rigidity.  But,  as  I  placed 
my  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  there  came  a  strong 
shudder  over  his  whole  person ;  a  sickly  smile  quiv 
ered  about  his  lips ;  and  I  saw  that  he  spoke  in  a  low, 
hurried,  and  gibbering  murmur,  as  if  unconscious  of 
my  presence.  Bending  closely  over  him,  I  at  length 
drank  in  the  hideous  import  of  his  words. 

"  Not  hear  it  ?  —  yes,  I  hear  it,  and  have  heard  it. 
Long  —  long  —  long  —  many  minutes,  many  hours, 
many  days,  have  I  heard  it,  yet  I  dared  not  —  oh, 
pity  me,  miserable  wretch  that  I  am  !  —  I  dared  not 
—  I  dared  not  speak  !  We  have  put  her  living  in  the 
tomb  !  1  Said  I  not  that  my  senses  were  acute  ?  I 
now  tell  you  that  I  heard  her  first  feeble  movements  in 
the  hollow  coffin.  I  heard  them  —  many,  many  day? 
ago  —  yet  I  dared  not  —  I  dared  not  speak !  And 
now  —  to-night  —  Ethelred  —  ha  !  ha  !  —  the  break 
ing  of  the  hermit's  door,  and  the  death-cry  of  the 
dragon,  and  the  clangor  of  the  shield !  —  say,  rather, 
the  rending  of  her  coffin,  and  the  grating  of  the  iron 
hinges  of  her  prison,  and  her  struggles  within  the 
coppered  archway  of  the  vault !  Oh,  whither  shall  I 
fly  ?  Will  she  not  be  here  anon  ?  Is  she  not  hurry 
ing  to  upbraid  me  for  my  haste  ?  Have  I  not  heard 

1  Poe  was  morbidly  interested  in  the  subject  of  supposed 
deaths  and  premature  burials.  He  introduces  it,  for  example,  in 
the  present  tale,  in  Ligeia,  in  Premature  Burial,  and  in  the  ex 
travaganza,  Loss  of  Breath. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER.    508 

her  footstep  on  the  stair?  Do  I  not  distinguish  that 
heavy  and  horrible  beating  of  her  heart  ?  Madman  '  " 
—  here  he  sprang  furiously  to  his  feet,  and  shrieked 
out  his  syllables,  as  if  in  the  effort  he  were  giving  up 
his  soul  —  "  Madman  !  I  tell  you  that  she  now  stands 
without  the  door  !  " 

As  if  in  the  superhuman  energy  of  his  utterance 
there  had  been  found  the  potency  of  a  spell,  the 
huge  antique  panels  to  which  the  speaker  pointed 
threw  slowly  back,  upon  the  instant,  their  ponderous 
and  ebony  jaws.  It  was  the  work  of  the  rushing 
gust  —  but  then  without  those  doors  there  did  stand 
the  lofty  and  enshrouded  figure  of  the  lady  Madeline 
of  Usher !  There  was  blood  upon  her  white  robes, 
and  the  evidence  of  some  bitter  struggle  upon  every 
portion  of  her  emaciated  frame.  For  a  moment  she 
remained  trembling  and  reeling  to  and  fro  upon  the 
threshold  —  then,  with  a  low  moaning  cry,  fell  heavily 
inward  upon  the  person  of  her  brother,  and,  in  her 
violent  and  now  final  death  agonies,  bore  him  to  the 
floor  a  corpse,  and  a  victim  to  the  terrors  he  had 
anticipated. 

From  that  chamber  and  from  that  mansion  I  fled 
aghast.  The  storm  was  still  abroad  in  all  its  wrath 
as  I  found  myself  crossing  the  old  causeway.  Sud 
denly  there  shot  along  the  path  a  wild  light,  and  I 
turned  to  see  whence  a  gleam  so  unusual  could  have 
issued ;  for  the  vast  house  and  its  shadows  were 
alone  behind  me.  The  radiance  was  that  of  the  full, 
setting,  and  blood-red  moon,  which  now  shone  vividly 
through  that  once  barely-discernible  fissure,  of  which 
I  have  before  spoken  as  extending  from  the  roof  of 
the  building,  in  a  zigzag  direction,  to  the  base.  While 
I  gazed,  this  fissure  rapidly  widened  —  there  came 


504  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

a  fierce  breath  of  the  whirlwind  —  the  entire  orb  of 
the  satellite  burst  at  once  upon  my  sight  —  my  brain 
reeled  as  I  saw  the  mighty  walls  rushing  asunder  — 
there  was  a  long,  tumultuous  shouting  sound  like  the 
voice  of  a  thousand  waters  —  and  the  deep  and  dank 
tarn  at  my  feet  closed  sullenly  and  silently  over  the 
fragments  of  the  "  House  of  Usher.'* 


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